All The Blood That I Would Bleed
by truglasgowgal
Summary: Just because they're not there all the time, doesn't mean they're not there when it matters. It doesn't mean they don't care.
1. Six Months

Probs shouldn't be posting yet another fic (and a multi-chap/WIP at that) when I still have some lying neglected in my profile, but I shouldn't do a lot of things and oh wow now I've started posting it.

As with many other stories I've penned, this started as a one-shot, was intended to be a one-shot, still tried to convince me it was a one-shot until I cottoned on to the fact it extended well over forty-pages in Word, unfinished, and I put a stop to that nonsense. Not kidding anyone here. It's clearly a multi-chap, so it'll get posted as such.

Ignoring that ramble above, this is the first fic I've posted in this fandom, and I do so hope you enjoy it :)

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**Title:** All The Blood That I Would Bleed  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing here. Title from the lyrics to 'Ho Hey' by The Lumineers. I'm particularly partial to the version by the Stella sisters, which just so happens to be featured on the tv show Nashville, so there's youtube clips if you're curious – but the original works too in a pinch ;)  
**A/N:** So while it should be obvious that I've used various sources and borrowed and blended from multiple facets, this is supposed to be firmly set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. As such here is your **WARNING: SPOILERS** for any and all films that have been released thus far, including the trailers for upcoming releases and possibly set photos also.  
**Summary:** Just because they're not there all the time, doesn't mean they're not there when it matters. It doesn't mean they don't care.

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"_To be honest, you're the only one I've ever spent this much time and effort on. And it's worth it."  
__**Notebook of Love**_

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Chapter One

.

He's six months old when it starts.

Well, no, _technically_ it starts before he's even born.

But really, it starts when he's six months old.

.

Clint arrives too late.

That's about the crux of it.

There's an assault team positioned out front, and another advancing round the side of the building, ready to breach. Glass shatters as the panes are shot out before the synchronized drop of flashbangs, and there's a shuffle of material across old wooden floorboards at the sudden intrusion.

Multiple bangs resonate from the space beneath him. 9-bangers: one, two, three, four, _five_ of them. He counts. Either someone just got a new batch in, or they're of the opinion this is the only way to gain the upper hand over an opponent such as her. To overload her senses, to momentarily disorientate her, before they storm the place and attempt to subdue her.

Clint knows their style, knows they'll let the stun grenades do their work and then add some gas to the mix to really make it a party worth sticking around for.

Then they'll go in for her.

It means he knows what to expect, gives him a window of opportunity to get in before they do, get out before they do too.

If he'd been earlier, though, he'd have seen it. If he'd stayed in his position across the street instead of involving himself here and now, so close and unable to stop himself dropping through the skylight he's just installed; he'd have seen it.

The flashes from the stun grenades light up the windows like they're stained glass murals of The Crucifixion.

If they hadn't been so focused on their preferred outcome they'd have seen it too.

What's the use of an extraction when she's already been neutralized?

There's nothing to constrict his hearing, so when the screams start they pass right through the ceiling and into his ear canal like sonic waves.

It's not her, but this is worse.

No one else is supposed to be here.

No one else is supposed to be mixed up in all this.

No one else is supposed to be hurt; trapped inside and screaming.

Soles connect with the floor, knees bending and hands releasing to accommodate the perfect landing.

Clint enters the room to the sound of more canisters hitting the floorboards and he tugs his collar up, shifting his scarf to ensure his nose and mouth are covered.

Fingers grip the edge of a nearby table, threatening to unfurl as the shake of bended legs warns of a tandem collapse.

He kneels down, hands molding to curves as he pulls and twists the body round until he feels the breath seep staccato into the hollow by his shoulder.

"I got you," he murmurs, already on the move, "You're ok. I got you, kid."

Tiny hands clasp together, gripping the short hairs at the base of his neck, heels digging into the ridges on the back of his vest.

The kid clings to him and soon the little line of vertebrae stop shifting beneath his palm and the breath falls steady against his skin. For the first time since this all started, he stops screaming.

.

"I wouldn't go that way," is the calm observation he bestows upon the escapee.

"You from around here?" The return question is directed at Phil along the serrated edge of a nasty-looking blade. It looks just as wicked as it's intended in the hand that wields it; oddly maybe even more when the other is holding a young child swaddled close to his chest.

Phil lifts his eyes from the weapon as he inquires, "You planning to cut me if I say no?"

The man doesn't respond.

He opts for something different. "Or if I say yes?"

"You wanna play guide? Go ahead," the carrier tells him in a gruff tone, inclining his head towards the alley on his other side. "Let's go back the way you just came."

He focuses in on the man's eyes; where the land meets the sky and people get lost in between.

"Do I need to mention if you try anything I'm gonna cut you?" The man jerks his head forward with the words, and it doesn't seem an intimidation tactic so much as a jolt to get him to proceed.

They need to keep moving. They've been stationary too long already.

"I gathered as much from the gestures and your reluctance to relinquish the blade," Phil replies, tone as genial as ever. "But thank you for clarifying your intent."

The man lifts his eyebrows, and it's not quite impatience; it seems more exasperation if anything.

They really should get going.

"Would you like to relieve me of my weapons?" He doesn't let his eyes flicker to any of the places on his person where such items are currently stored, but he does curve his lips with the remark, "I have several."

The quick scan across his body tells him that the man is well aware of this, intends to play on such knowledge like this is a challenge to be overcome.

"Nah," is the easy dismissal, and there's a quirk of another set of lips, "Keeps things interesting."

A game to be won, then.

"You'd let it fall down to reaction time?" Phil questions, "A test of reflexes?"

There's a roll of shoulders like he's not weighed down by a body and a weapon. "Why not?"

He shrugs in clothes often too cumbersome for this sort of work. Well outside the mission parameters now, he doesn't respond. He starts walking the route back the way he did indeed come; he thought undetected. He should've known not to underestimate his opponent. The man who watches from afar, hides in the shadows, waits it out through wind and rain and snow, takes the shot and never misses. The man they say has eyes like a hawk.

"Are you planning on using the child as a distraction?" he aims for a conversational tone; finds it a tried and tested method of achieving progress in any situation.

"You planning on killing him if he distracts _you_ too much?" The man, this _Hawk_, responds.

That's the sort of thing that has Phil thinking maybe that folder of his should be a little thicker; the things this Hawk has seen in his time. No one's ever accused him of having the look of a baby killer about him before.

"I remember you," Phil divulges, when they've walked far enough along the route for long enough that he knows they won't be disturbed. Not that he'd really been expecting an ambush: he had a front row seat to the fireworks show left in the Hawk's wake and it wasn't even the Fourth, but sometimes life's just good to him like that.

"Oh yeah?" the incredulity he hears in that tone is mingled with enough sarcasm that he can easily envision the expression that accompanies it, "I'm told I'm not too memorable, got one of those faces people just forget in a crowd."

"I suppose that comes in handy," he agrees with the carrier, "When you've just assassinated the leader of the biggest cartel in all of South America."

He turns his head slowly to the side, watches the Hawk as the Hawk watches him.

"Like I said," he repeats, and there's that smile again, that mild-mannered tone he's long since perfected, "I remember you."

The eyes of the escapee are still on him; the knife still brandished between well-worn knuckles and toughened skin and pointed at Phil's person.

"So this is your way of evening the score." Not a question; which is a reflection of the Hawk's history in itself. Nobody does something for nothing, and everyone expects something in return.

"So you remember me as well?" The prospect pleases him: eyes like a hawk and the memory to go with.

"I remember you nearly bleeding out in the dirt, alone," comes the snipe in return, "I remember thinking: _What the Hell is this fuckin' suit doing now? _Right before I watched you go down." Funny: Phil vaguely remembers hearing words to that effect at the time too. "I remember you handed me your card instead of thanking me for saving your life."

"The organization I work for, we monitor potential threats," he says, shrugs like the two go hand in hand, and indeed often they do, "Doesn't mean we can't lend a hand when said threat is under fire themselves."

"So you took a bullet for me instead of neutralizing me and I stopped it from killing you instead of doing it myself," is the Hawk's interpretation of events, "We're already even."

"Doesn't mean I can't lend a hand," Phil reiterates, and holds out his own to literally do just that. "I know a guy. Want me to take the kid?"

"No."

He tilts his head to try and angle a look at the infant. "Is he ok?"

The child is turned bodily away from him, shielded further from his view with the curt: "He's fine."

"How can you be sure?" He poses it like an innocent enquiry; although the words and the situation hold enough weight that he knows he's not fooling the other.

The movement is minute, caught between the flicker of his eyes after the closure of a blink against the ash in the air. Were it anyone else accompanying this man and his charge it would have gone unnoticed. Phil has spent the better part of this journey cataloguing the man and his motives; another up-close-and-personal encounter to add to the mission report of yesteryear and the file as thick as a brick and devoid of any real substance to go with it.

_I'm not_, the admission or something similar seems to flitter through the man's mind like Phil himself is in possession of one of Stark's gizmos and able to translate every word, _but he will be_. There's too much truth in that; the words will never make it as far as his tongue.

"Because," the Hawk is choosing the moment and his words carefully; choosing to respond at all.

Phil hears the lessons he was taught when he was young: _**because**__ is not an answer; now tell me something real, something true_.

He watches the words the other still refuses to say filter through the flash of color in his eyes, the quick lock of his jaw, the shift of veins across the muscles in his arm: _because he's not crying, because there's no blood, because he's still breathing_; until the man settles on something real, something true: "Because I know."

He nods and doesn't say anything.

The Hawk doesn't drop the knife, but he does gesture for Phil to keep moving with his eyes rather than the blade. He'd call that progress. And an early win for mild-mannered, conversational guys everywhere.

.

"He's Mockingbird's?" the Suit poses it like a question, like he has so many other things that are really statements coming from his mouth; because he already knows too damn much for his own good, for Clint's liking. "That was her hidey-hole back there? The one you blew sky high with all those men inside, before I could order a retrieval team? Sure to generate a lot of paperwork. Thank you for that."

He resists the urge to bite out, _not anymore_, in response to the first section and, _you're welcome_, in regards to the second. Instead he says, "She called herself Huntress."

"I know," the man confirms that he does in fact know too damn much, "It was her cover ID. Part of the mission mandate was that no one could know who she was really working for. It worked a little too well in the end."

"Was I part of the mission mandate too?" he spits out; because at this point, with the Suit spilling more than he probably should Clint might as well fish for more and see what catches.

There's a genial shrug. "Not the one I read."

"Right, and you know everything." He's not sure if he's aiming for sarcastic or scathing with that one; he's not sure he's ever cared to analyze the tone of his words this much before. He's never had to. You can't analyze something that can't be seen, and he works very hard not to be seen.

"I wouldn't presume so, but that's to be expected," the Suit divulges this like the words are easy, and the implications clear. He might not hold the spot of Top Dog around their parts, but he still knows too damn much around these ones.

"Spies and their secrets," Clint remarks, and this time it is scathing.

"While we are in the business of harvesting secrets," comes the response, matter-of-fact, just like the next part: "You seem to have a habit of silencing the holders of such secrets."

"Time is money," he schools the other in one of the basic philosophies he's followed his entire life, rolls his shoulders and passes blame, "Long as I've known, tardiness always carries a punishment of some sort."

That almost makes the Suit smile, but it might be the double meaning that pulls him up short.

"You know about what happened back there?" Clint asks; figures it don't so much matter at this stage if he lies or not, except the knife in his hand may actually end up buried between flesh and bone and the kid would end up with more than just soot and ash covering him.

"She'd been off our radar for a long time," the Suit tells him, and he's inclined to believe that since he was likely on her radar during much of that period and he's not turned up dead yet at the hands of the government or something similar, "And there hasn't been an incident involving a really big stick in quite some time. The higher ups declared her Missing, Presumed KIA. I suppose I'll have to call in at some point to confirm their suspicions now."

"'Your lot in the habit of making stupid-ass decisions regarding the status of your operatives? And then just broadcasting them to the world, telling anyone who asks what's going on with them?" He'd like a truthful answer to that one given he has more than an inkling of where this day is heading, but he doubts that's what he'll get. No one ever likes to advertise their shortcomings. He shakes his head, announces, "No wonder I got to all those folks before you."

The Suit chooses to ignore that blatant dig at his employer's incompetence, or maybe just their unfortunate display of _tardiness_.

"Depends on the threat," he replies to the original line of questioning; eyes crinkling at the edges, lips curving along one side, "Depends on the clearance level."

"Hence the suit," Clint observes.

This time the man does smile.

"I prefer it to the skintight lycra number," is the accompanying quip, "It clings in all the wrong places."

If he hadn't been clued in earlier; hadn't survived the company on a previous occasion, he'd know for sure now: the Suit has a peculiar sense of humor, finely tuned, and wily enough to get under your skin.

"So, you going to keep him?" the other pipes up after they've transferred from the winding city back streets to the dirt tracks that lead them further and further away from the general populous.

He keeps checking in on the kid, but there's not been a peep out of him since just after this all began. Clint's sorta glad for the quiet; he's got enough noise coming from the Suit without trying to settle a screaming baby on top of it.

The kid's still pressed flat against the Kevlar of his chest though; like he figures the closer he can get to the skin underneath the safer he'll be. Like this is how she used to hold him and it's all he knows. And _fuck,_ if that doesn't twist Clint's insides and make him want to gouge out the guilt already clawing at his marrow, desperate to be entrenched in his bones like so many other things he'll never be rid of now; buried too deep to be anything but a part of him.

"_She_ wasn't supposed to keep him," he replies, his frustration carrying from his tightly wound form to wrap around each word as it leaves him, "He wasn't supposed to be here, he was supposed to be safe; with some stranger mom-and-dad who could give him what we couldn't. He wasn't supposed to be part of all this."

There's not a word in response, and he swings his head round to scrutinize the other.

"What?" he barks out, because he's choosing now to shut up? That's just un-fucking-believable that is. "Suddenly you've got nothing to say?"

The Suit rolls his shoulders. "I thought it a tad redundant to point out the obvious, although by all means if you'd prefer I went ahead and did so I'd be happy to oblige."

He voices the thought as it repeats in his mind, muttering "Un-fucking-believable" to the wind.

"You know, given your current situation, I'd venture most people would be of the opinion it's rather fortunate that our paths have once again crossed as they have." The other remarks on it in that gratingly pleasant tone he seems to adopt more often than not, like it really is a wonderful fateful occurrence: the two of them being here, in the same place, at the same time. Except Clint's never been one for coincidences and there's something in the words, wielded like a weapon, slipping out just before they're morphed by that delicate twist of plucky red, that screams at him: _stop being an ungrateful shit and take my damn help. _Of course, that might just be repressed issues from his childhood playing interpreter to a perfectly legitimate, not at all loaded, statement.

He maintains a healthy dose of skepticism for moments like this, so he figures he should utilize its existence, and side-eyes the other with the observation, "Yeah, your timing's really something, huh?"

The Suit smiles again; it's somewhat unsettling at this stage, especially when he's still choosing to act all genial and mild-mannered when Clint knows he can be anything but. "Thank you."

Clint keeps his mouth shut. He's still yet to decide if the Suit's actually doing him a favour here or not. He'll reserve judgement until this plays out a little longer: if he's going to end up owing the man for a lifetime, he wants to make sure he's good for it.

.

They're trekking through the woods – the fuckin' _woods_ – and though he reckons it'd be a bit pointless for the Suit to have led him all this way only to ambush him now, he's not putting anything past the man. There's a small clearing up ahead that you'd only really notice up this close and personal, with a tiny piece of property resting neatly inside an alcove of bark and leaves.

He's not seen places like this since he was a kid, and even then they were surrounded by cornfields and shit, not in middle of a forest like they're about to step into some nut-job's woodcutting shed. If it turns out this place belongs to some fuckwit obsessed with Hansel and Gretel, and they're here as part of a mighty ridiculous, not to mention crazy elaborate, ruse to sacrifice the kid, Clint's gonna burn this whole fucking forest to the ground.

Observant though he's been throughout the journey, his senses feel like they've been working overdrive since they ditched the car that got them farther and faster than their legs could take them and the woodland started getting denser and denser until it pretty much encased them in tree sap and pine leaves and whatever else is molting off the woodwork here. So while he'd normally be inclined to call this place a _shack_, he's picked up on some signs that might just point in another direction: namely the kind that suggest this little backcountry hidey-hole has a shitload of advanced technology lingering within.

"Darling!" is the exclamation as they draw closer to the… residence.

The woman standing just over the threshold has a mostly unassuming look about her; her arms stretched out to the side, like she's beckoning them forward for a warm embrace. Clint's not fooled: he's spent most of his life around people who project one image to the masses while living in someone else's skin behind closed doors.

She tilts her head to the side, sweeping back the gray as it falls in practiced dominance over the blonde underneath. Her eyes crinkle with the words, "Uch, and you brought guests – how kind!"

The sarcasm overloading her tone is evident, but whether that means she's genuinely put out by their arrival remains to be seen.

"You're not the only one who prefers to watch from afar," the Suit leans across to tell him, pulling back with a smile. "Hawkeye."

He chooses to take the positive from that statement, and give an internal high-five to his instincts. If you think someone's watching you, they probably are.

"You know a guy, do you?" he says instead, calling the man out on his earlier choice of words.

"I know a guy," the Suit repeats.

When he turns there's that fucking smile again, only it's laced with far more smugness than before.

"Jack," the man inclines his head towards their host, lips tugging and pulling in opposite directions with that one word alone, as he steps inside.

Clint gives a short, silent nod to the woman, _Jack_, and follows just after.

She moves to join them and closes the door behind her, keeping a watchful eye on the outside world before retreating back inside her own.

"And here was me thinking you'd gone and lost my address," she comments airily, gesturing between them, "But no, you were just biding your time while you gathered up the strays. So thoughtful of you."

The Suit ignores her jab and instead answers to the pursed lips, the raised eyebrows, the arms crossed over her chest. Toted up it's expectation easily interpreted: she knows they want something from her. "My friend here is in need of your assistance."

She doesn't bother to ask which one, though her eyes skirt across to Clint as if to say, _Oh really?_

He'd bet she's more than a smidge amused, but there's no trace of humor when she speaks, "Are we talking domestic or international?"

Of course just because something's not immediately visible doesn't mean it's not there.

"A little of both, I'd imagine," is the man's response, and there's no hesitation in it; no shame in such an admission. He wonders if there should be; maybe something of an apology for the added workload at least.

She's older than him, this _Jack_ woman; older than the Suit too. She shows it in the way she gets pissed at the other, lines carved out on her face leaving crinkles of residue that weren't there before; like she's already exasperated with this whole routine of his as she rephrases, "Ok, how about this: are we talking local to me and mine, or – "

"How about you both stop trying to riddle me out of this little chat you're having and tell me what your plans are here?" is Clint's suggestion, cutting her off. That he does give an apology for – well, half an apology, of sorts. He tilts his head and lifts the shoulder not playing pillow to the kid's puffy little cheek. She seems to get the gist of what he's getting at. She smiles.

Then she nods at the Suit and comments, "You know I might actually like this one." A wrist less than half the size of his own slips through the space between the trio, her pointer finger displacing the air around it, "That's you scored two now, boyo, well done you."

He looks between them, eyebrows raised, waiting for one or both to explain their intentions. He knows they will. People always do.

"Your buddy over here wants me to take the kid off your hands," Jack tells him, but makes no physical move to actually do such a thing.

"I got that part," he grits out, "What? You think I trekked all this way through the freakin' wilderness without expecting to meet a forger. That part, I know. What else?"

"No, not just get you the papers, that I could do if I was three sheets to the wind or about ready to keel over into the Lord's arms," she fobs off, rolls her eyes and almost looks a touch insulted at the insinuation that that's _all _she does here. Did he mention the shit-ton of electric and machinery in the place? Yeah, ok, so maybe not just a forger. "He wants me to _raise _the kid."

That information takes a moment to sink in; along with all the other data he's acquired since he ditched the ambush squad and fashioned himself as a tag-along for the government-issue mountain guide. He's lived in some shitty places in his life; a good fair few of those happening before he was even in his teens, and though this doesn't come close to those; it's not far enough away for his liking either.

"He wants you to raise the kid?" he repeats, turns to the Suit and does the same, "You want _her _to raise the kid?"

"I am standing right here, you know," she remarks at that. "And I take exception to your tone – there ain't nothing wrong with _me_," she informs him smartly, looks him up and down, and nods at the bundle in his arms and the makeshift bag of supplies that goes with. "After all, I'm not the one trying to get rid of a baby."

He doesn't answer her on that; he has his reasons. He supposes that's what everyone tells themselves when they shuck responsibility and leave their own on other folk's doorsteps, but he couldn't really give a shit. He knows why he's doing this. It's for the kid. And it'll be worth it. It will.

The kid will be alive for one; which is a pretty top-notch place to start in his book.

He still has rules though: "I'm not having him grow up in some hillbilly shack in the middle of the woods."

Jack looks set to howl with laughter at that one. "Oh honey, if only you knew half of what this place has to offer." She shakes her head, but no secrets fall out.

"There are worse places to grow up," the Suit mentions, like he's telling Clint to pick and choose his battles; that compromise is key here.

"There's better places too," he returns, and he means it.

He's not giving the kid to her so she can raise him like Mowgli in _The Jungle Book_. He doesn't want him shut away in some little tree house, living off the land and making nice with all the animals. He wants what he can't give him. He wants a home for the kid.

"Well, Hell, Pick and Choosy, maybe I don't feel like moving after all," she throws out, hands in the air and shaking her head at them like she should've known she'd be dealing with two ungrateful wretches when they first appeared on her doorstep with an infant in tow. "Or doing this for you, which you _should _really be on your knees groveling for."

"Jack," the Suit says, but she doesn't stop, instead she rounds on him again with her next line.

"And can I say? You have a right brass neck on you, Phillis." She shoots a pointed look his way, and a shock of white cuts through one of her blue eyes with the angle and sharpness of her gaze.

It doesn't seem like she expects an apology for the action, and it's not like she's likely to get one anytime soon either.

The other man turns to Clint with that last remark and swiftly rattles off, "Not actually my name, do not go getting any ideas."

He does allow a smirk; it might be unwise, but he's not about to pass up the opportunity completely. He tucks that little tidbit away where the ideas have already started to form; as they always do.

"He's right," the woman agrees, though it's a begrudging statement at best, made up for by the amusement that split her cheeks this time with beaming lips and gleeful words, "But can you tell how it annoys him so?"

She seems content to share that much with him; smile and all, before she turns back to look at the Suit with a narrowed-eyed gaze and puffs out a sigh.

"Which is a good thing," she points out, "Since I did actually like this place, you know," she informs him, and she jabs the air with her finger as she tells him, "And I want that noted in that little noggin of yours when I remind you twenty years down the line of this absolutely gigantic favor I'm doing for you."

"Noted," the man confirms; and Clint notes that she's already talking in the past tense, which is good for them, he supposes, since it means she's agreed already. Something tells him the Suit had known she would all along. "Now," his genial smile is back, brows lifting a touch as he prompts, "Can we proceed?"

Apparently he uses that expression on everyone, and she knows it. She pulls out a nearby chair and plonks herself down on it without ceremony. Then reaching over to start pulling sheets and various instruments from drawers, she boots up some complex-looking system on her computer; muttering the whole time about _bloody men _and _all these years, nothing's changed_ and _never learn, always bailing them out._

When she's apparently finished prepping her tools, she spins round in the chair and fits Clint with a smile that looks as real as the pain behind the flash of white in her eyes, "Now, your little bundle of not-so-joy got a name?"

.

"Francis," he replies when prompted. He has no idea if that's what she actually named the kid, knowing Bobbi probably not. Or if she did, she'd have called him by some nickname like Swan Song or White Noise. So it's something Clint would like to give him, if he can.

His palms are rough from years of abuse and exposure, but the kid doesn't stir beneath his hand as he brushes some of those white-blond strands across his little forehead, though they pose no real risk of falling over his tiny closed lids.

"Got a second name?"

Jack's still watching him when he looks back up from the tiny human resting against the dip in his shoulder.

He pauses, catches himself before he says his own: he doubts he'll be granted such an indulgence and even if he was the point is to keep the kid safe, not paint an almighty target on his back as soon as he ups sticks and leaves him. "Thought you'd just make one up, or base it off whatever it says on some poor dead kid's gravestone."

"Crude," she comments, though she relents, "But not wholly inaccurate."

He waits for her to continue, eyebrows raised, and she heaves a sigh, rolling her eyes.

"Look I'm one of the best at what I do, which means I can do as I please. You want the kid to have your name, the kid can have your name," Jack tells him, "Can't guarantee how long it'll stick, mind, but he can have it for the time being. Ok?"

"One of the best?" he questions instead of offering up his own namesake on the kid's behalf.

"Yes, _one_ of the best," she repeats, and then expands with, "Don't wanna _be_ the best or they hound your ass for everything and nothing. Your face gets plastered all over the place, people try talk to you like they know you," she shakes her head, resolute, "No thanks, leave that to the boy-geniuses of the world. Anonymity becomes me and I prefer it that way," and then she concedes with a wink and a smile, "And quite frankly I'm getting too old for that shit."

"But not too old for this?" He's always been told he's quick on the uptake; sometimes too quick for his own good.

"It's Morse," the Suit cuts in before they can continue.

Clint looks to the older man, who simply raises a brow that seem to say, _you would have preferred your own?_

He shrugs and concedes the point.

"Morse as in _Doc_?" Jack directs at the Suit, and there's that flash of white on blue again; only it lingers a little longer this time. A tell. "As in _Bobbi_?" she demands, "This is her kid? And you two were just going to palm him off to me without a word to his mother? Or me?" She shakes her head, expression of plain disbelief, "Oh you make quite the pair, don't you?"

"Agent Morse is no longer part of the equation," the other man responds, swallows and then nods at the computer before her as if that'll make her get back to their previous task.

Apparently he should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

"Wow, ok, remind me never to ask you to play doctor. Tales of your bedside manner have clearly been grossly exaggerated all these years," she scowls at the bearer of the news, but Clint can tell she's hurt by this; she doesn't make much attempt to hide it either, and it quickly morphs into anger: "What happened?"

"I'm not quite sure yet," the Suit admits, "I'll know more when I return to base and can order a full investigation if one isn't already being carried out as we speak. It seems her cover for Counter-Intelligence was blown. They took her out."

"Who's they?" Jack demands, and there's an undertone there that betrays what she can really do with all this technology that surrounds her. "Your lot? 'They do it?"

"It wasn't us," he returns quite calmly; as if this woman isn't a powder keg near-ready to explode on them. "She was undercover. It could have been any number of groups she was investigating. She was dead before we could get to her."

"I was late," Clint chooses to add; because it matters, and she should know.

"It happens," the Suit allows, sparing a glance in his direction.

He shoots him a look right back; it shouldn't happen. Not if you want to complete your objective; not if you want to live.

"So now we're playing _Pass the Parcel_ with the leftover baby," is what she says to all that, and the way she now seems to be compartmentalizing is another sign that there is far more to this woman than meets the eye. "Great."

"Jack," the Suit chastises, and this time she does drop it, at least to pick up where they left off.

"Francis Morse. Bit of a mouthful, but ok. Let's just hope the kid doesn't have a lisp," she replies in a tone that belays the unspoken '_aye-aye-Captain_' and gives the other a swift nod to go with it.

"Yeah, for now, but after that just Francis ok?" Clint shrugs off the other man's inquiring gaze and murmurs, "He should at least get to keep one thing from all of this."

"Don't worry boyo, I got this handled," Jack assures him, already moving between typing away rapidly and scribbling across documents, "Now you won't be on his birth certificate or anything like that, and for all intents and purposes we're gonna pass it off like he was abandoned – but if I'm going to be so kind as to pass along the family name to the little darling, I suppose I could swing the whole grandma-guardian thing."

Clint near balks at her, before he gets himself in check. This whole thing has been a cluster-fuck from start to finish, but really what did he think was going to happen?

"I know," Jack placates him and his obvious thought-process, standing and moving towards him, "But he's my first," she excuses herself then, hands crossed over her chest, pressed close to her heart; and Clint can see how this will play out under any public scrutiny, small-town gossip or prying eyes of watchdogs who cross their path, "And he's just so cute, and little – look at those itty bitty fingers and toes." She's bending down, cooing at the bundle still held securely in his arms, and then she straightens, rolls her shoulders and the nonchalance emanating from her now replaces any old-dear routine of a split-second ago, "We've got time."

It takes him a moment too long to realize she's standing watching him again, only this time she's holding out her arms, obviously expecting him to hand the kid over.

"You planning on relinquishing your hold on him anytime soon?" she asks, cracks him a smile with a smidge of sympathy.

"Let him be for now, Jack," the Suit instructs, and steps beyond them to the armchair by the window; leaving the one next to it with a clear view of the door and the surrounding entry points free for Clint. "He's only let go of him twice since he got him, and those were both struggles in themselves."

That elicits a gasp from her, and the scandalized expression: "You mean you let some random women - _plural _- hold my baby before me?" One hand on her heart again, and Clint can see the faint tracings of a star shaped shrapnel wound teasing her fingertips. She looks between the two, continuing her act, "You two are sure making a good job of wounding me today."

His lips quirk up in a grin and he shifts his arms, shoulder nudging forward with the kid still attached, "If you're that desperate, I think he needs a change." He tilts his head, though he has more than an inkling she's not going to fall for his charms, "And you know what they say? Third time's a charm!"

That doesn't please her any.

"Sorry, that's still classed as daddy duty while you're here," she flat-out rejects his version of an offer to bond with the kid, although she does reward him with: "But nice try."

The Suit laughs from the other side of the room. "Oh go on, Jack, he sweet-talked the young cashier at the gas station into doing it on the way here, got her to fill a bag full of essentials and throw in a quick feeding lesson too. The other one practically jumped at the chance to lend a hand as soon as we stepped inside the store; apparently a baby was the most exciting thing she'd seen all day. If she'd had any, her other customers would've probably been of the same opinion, the amount of screaming that followed. Kid's got a killer pair of lungs on him. Though I can't imagine it'll be the most tasking role you've ever undertaken in your life."

"I'm insulted you consider me as easy as those others you conned. And if you're so sure, you do it. I'll have plenty of that to fill my future and I refuse to perpetuate the gender stereotype," she snubs the oh-so-tempting offer again. "Besides, if my hands are full of baby, who's going to ensure my having him's all legal and just in this here free and brave land?" She flashes them a grin before turning back to her computer screen. "Enjoy gents."

And that's how Clint ends up with a self-taught, crash course in feeding, changing and caring for the kid in other ways than simply being a human pillow for him to sleep on.

Enlightening is one way to put it.

The kid conks out again on his shoulder not long after Clint's made it through ensuring he's been cleaned, fed, watered and he's not about to choke on any of it after all that effort.

It's a comfortable weight he's grown quickly used to, and in the months that follow he finds not even the load of a sniper rifle or the draw of his bow can fill the void.

The kid's left an imprint, and he'd known the moment he left that he'd find his way back to him.

So much for giving the kid a normal life.

Then again, they'd left him with Jack.

That's an adventure in its own right.

.

He's six months old when he tries to save himself and someone else offers to do it for him. Maybe he's too young then to realize it, but soon he comes to understand: sometimes it's ok to accept the hand that's offered to you.

.

**TBC…**

* * *

**A/N:** Hope it wasn't too confiusing. Sections and characters should be easier to distinguish now that the two have 'officially' been introduced.

Like I said, it was supposed to be a one-shot. I just don't know when to quit.  
Can't guarantee following chapters will be quite as lengthy, but it's a distinct possibility since I don't know when to shut up in print or in talkative real life. Lucky you lot.  
Aim is to post one chap a day, again no guarantees.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.  
Drop me a wee line or whatever with your thoughts if you're so inclined – any and all recognition of acknowledgement is greatly appreciated!  
Steph  
xxx


	2. Four Years

So I've already fallen off the 'post one chap a day' wagon, but I might get back on track yet.

A/N: Flashbacks are in _**bold italic.  
**_Anything in another language other than spoken English is generally in _italics._

* * *

Chapter Two

.

He's four years old when he meets her and that's the start of something else entirely.

.

"Agent Romanoff," Coulson's voice causes her to pause, though she doesn't turn, "Might I advise against the action you are about to undertake."

She stays silent, because what does he know of it?

She'll be off-base, likely monitored, but that's to be expected. They might have granted her 'Agent' status, but apparently they won't blindly trust her when she's not within their immediate line of sight or target range. They're not complete idiots, she admits. Barton would've likely made a quip to the notion of _what does that say about you?_ that she works for such idiots. Sometimes he reminds her of a child, albeit with a darker sense of humor. In any case, she's worked for more idiotic beings for less of a reason than he'd given her when he'd chosen not to kill her. Besides, he's not here. And that's sort of the point.

"This is your first opportunity off-base, without direct supervision," Coulson points out, as if she wasn't already aware. In other words, it is a test. "It would be prudent not to spend it hunting down someone who does not wish to be found."

She takes that to mean that Barton's whereabouts are not currently being monitored, and her seeking him out would not only draw unwanted attention to his position, but also to whatever it is that he and their handler seem so keen for her not to know about. They're keeping secrets from those that are employed to extract them, so of course this just makes her all the more curious to uncover what it is they're hiding.

"Are we not partners?" she enquires.

She turns to look at him, though she knows his eyes have not moved from her position.

"Barton and I?" she clarifies; as if there was any need. "Surely his presence would be enough to keep the guard dogs at bay while I'm out assimilating myself in the real world once more?" she poses it like a question, but it's a statement of certainty. She knows as well as he does, as they all do: the _partners_ are on probation, and if Barton cannot keep her on a leash, he'll suffer the same fate they have in store for her. S.H.I.E.L.D will not hesitate to order a hit on their own agents; in that regard, they are no different from her previous stream of employers. There are, after all, always more assets willing to rise through the ranks and take their place.

"I'm sure you'll manage just fine on your own," is his level response, the unspoken _you have all these years_ not far behind. "Although you'll find the meaning can usually be found in the term itself," he points out. "_Personal time_." His lips quirk up in one corner while his eyes remain a steady gaze on hers: it is another test, one of Coulson's own. Subtle approval wrapped in a warning. "It tends to indicate a desire to spend time _away _from others, partaking in activities of one's own choice."

She shrugs and sends a smile of practiced pleasantry back at him, mirroring the one he wears so well. "Hmm, my English is still a little rusty."

She wonders if he'll warn Barton of her arrival, or if he'll let them play this out on their own.

_That _would be telling.

.

He watches her, his newest asset, as she goes off in search of his other – equally as skilled and every bit as stubborn.

The decision of whether or not to warn them of her incoming weighs on him more heavily than he will admit.

Despite both the educational and entertainment value gained from watching his assassins duke it out, Phil's not sure if the backlash on this particular occasion would be worth it. Barton is unbelievably protective of their whereabouts and would not take kindly to any intrusion in their lives, especially one not of their own making. No matter what he thinks of Romanoff, his feelings for the boy are unparalleled.

There's also the matter of Jack.

.

_**His phone flashes to indicate an incoming call, but there's no Caller ID to give him early insight. That's not exactly unusual in his line of work, however, so he answers with a prompt, "Coulson."**_

"_**Now before you go getting your knickers in a twist, I made sure the line's secure," comes the voice from the other end of the line.**_

_**In this case, even if there had been Caller ID it would likely have only led him on a wild goose chase. As is her way.**_

_**He immediately identifies the speaker and swallows the words he'd been set to utter in return, instead settling for the simple, but effective: "Proceed." **_

_**She waits a beat before informing him, "Something's come up."**_

_**If her contact alone hadn't already clued him into the gravity of the situation, her pitch rams the point home. He turns away, drops his speech to a lower tone and feels the words grate against the cage of his mouth before he releases them, "You've barely been in possession of the package for a month, what could have possibly 'come up' in such a timeframe?"**_

"_**Been counting the days too have you?" she practically sing-songs, although it lacks her usual level of jest.**_

_**She sighs and he allows her the moment.**_

"_**He's deaf, Phil."**_

_**He exhales. "I can see how that could complicate things."**_

"_**Glad you agree," she returns, "You plan on doing anything about it?"**_

"_**That depends," he says, still siphoning off options from one side of his brain to the other. "How accurate are your findings?"**_

"_**Well put it this way: he seems quite content to just babble away in his own little language, which is fine, really, I'm more than happy to let him go at it all day, doesn't bother me if he doesn't want to get an early start mastering my mother tongue – but none of it would appear to be in response to what I'm saying, or anything that's going on around him." She huffs a laugh to break the tension. "He can see fine though, so I got beady little eyes following me like a hawk all times of the day and night. And don't even get me started on that fact he won't sit still for a minute, restless doesn't even cover it. Figured that one out early though – just needs some visual or motor stimulation, give him something to hold or stare at and I'm in the clear for a good five minutes or more."**_

_**He allows himself the moment to smile and lets his thoughts drift to another. "Mmm," he murmurs, "That sounds familiar." **_

"_**You gonna tell him?" she prompts at that. He doesn't waste time thinking she's invented a mind-reading device along with everything else in her technological arsenal; his comment had been telling enough.**_

_**He's never really left 'Agent-mode' as it's been so cleverly dubbed, but there's a noticeable difference in the twang of his voice from prior, "My asset is currently undergoing a rigorous training program before full immersion into the organisation."**_

"_**So that's a no then?" she surmises, and if she was standing before him he could see the roll of the eyes that is not at all hidden from her tone now, and so very telling of her oft-deadpan attitude.**_

"_**It's an 'I'll tell him when I've secured his position within the company and I'm confident he's of sound mind and rational judgment before I pass that information along', but thank you for your input," he responds, and he's aware that it might contain an undertone that could be deemed somewhat snarky in nature, but he blames her for that. Besides, sometimes he thinks she responds best to her own kind.**_

_**She gives him a minute in return before she says, "I'll just deal with it, shall I?" **_

_**He allows the exhale to take with it any other reply he might've been tempted to send her way, and provides consent to the action even though he knows she doesn't actually need it. "I think that would be best."**_

.

His phone chirps with the sound of an incoming message: sender _unknown._

It reads: **I didn't realize your high-flyer was in the habit of leaving a trail for others to follow.**

Their 'code' is not the most advanced, nor would it be the most difficult to crack if someone were to attempt such an act. However, the measures Jack has in place, not to mention the lengths taken to secure his own privacy, would certainly be enough to render any attempts useless.

He types a quick response: **Maybe she's feeling lonely without a partner.**

Jack's reply is swift and to the point: **Maybe she shouldn't have killed all the others then.**

He shakes his head as he envisions her satisfied smile were she saying that to his face. Knowing her he wouldn't be surprised if she was. He'll have to do another sweep of his office later.

She follows her previous message up with another, and that's the last he hears from her.

**I suppose I'll just have to keep a closer eye on my birds for the foreseeable future, wouldn't want them to become anyone else's prey.**

It's somewhat debatable whether that actually makes his job easier or not.

.

_**Francis is still little more than a baby when they run for the first time, and indeed enveloped in Barton's arms Phil imagines he'll always look as such.**_

_**The tight scrutiny that follows 9/11 means it's not the best time to be hiding out in the good ol' US of A, especially if you are a hacker of sorts ("your words, **_**Phil-**_**istine" and though Jack deliberately butchers the term just so, it's debatable if she's actually referring to him or Barton). There's also the minor detail that she may or may not have entered the country through various illegal means. They don't talk about things like that. Sort of like how they don't mention the fact she has access to the kinds of systems S.H.I.E.L.D runs on – sometimes it's just better that way.**_

"_**Scandinavia?" Barton questions and looks from the eldest to the youngest in quick succession, letting his gaze linger on the little boy in his arms like this is his last goodbye. Not quite, but Phil supposes it's close enough.**_

"_**Well," Jack says, like she's really going to let her finger drop on a map-point and just take it from there, "That general direction anyway. Maybe Germany – are they still clamoring for the Aryan race over there? He'd fit right in!"**_

_**He fits her with a look, because that's in bad taste even for her idea of worldview, as skewed as it is. She just carries on fiddling with the controls on the miniature hearing aids laid out on the desk before her, chancing looks up at them every so often.**_

"_**Look at him," she continues on, "White blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a face like that? Scandinavian, German," she waves her hand around airily like the whole region in general will work with her plan, "They'll lap him up over there. And he barely speaks as it is, so he'll be fine."**_

"_**And what about you?" he asks, because he knows Barton won't, but it's weighing on both their minds just the same.**_

"_**What about me?" Jack returns, like this shouldn't be up for discussion, like this was all decided the moment they turned up on her doorstep and she didn't let them fry on the electrical fence on their way in. "This is all for him, remember?"**_

_**She stands and cranes her neck round to capture the infant's attention, an easy smile gracing her features and curing some of the symptoms of age and world-weariness as he spots her in his field of vision and beams and babbles in return.**_

"_Come here, Birdie__**," she beckons him forth with hand movements, and the boy twists in the other's arms, leaning forward to her waiting embrace.**_

"_**What did you call him?" Barton questions as he hands Francis over to her and she sets him on the tabletop, placing a soft-toy between his little fingers to keep him occupied. The cross of his arms would appear to be a move meant to counteract the loss than an obviously defensive tactic.**_

"_**Should I be questioning if his hearing loss is hereditary?" is Jack's response to that, eyebrow raised and residual amusement curving the corners of her lips; because she couldn't just say 'you heard me,' and be done with it.**_

_**Barton tosses a look her way and his jaw clicks like he's swallowing a nasty retort full of imaginative curses so as to avoid making a bad impression on the kid. It's oddly endearing in a way. He's usually better at compartmentalizing though. They'll have to work on that.**_

_**She finishes refitting Francis's hearing aids and drops the miniature bottle of baby oil in the bag by the table leg, while the kid amuses himself with repeatedly pressing down on the chest of the stuffed doll in his grasp and watching as it lights up over-and-over again. His little eyes flash an even more potent blue with the reflection from the toy figure's chest-piece, and Phil finds he can't look away from the strangely alluring light. The moment's only broken when Jack hefts the kid back up into her arms and Phil's oddly glad for the interruption.**_

"_**He gets into places he shouldn't, and climbs on all the furniture and when I try to get him to come down he makes this sound like '**__caw caw' __**and gives me with the bird sign," Jack gives reason to Barton's earlier enquiry, and then rolls her eyes, "No, not **__that __**bird sign, boyo, but nice try." She looks from the little boy by her side, resting his head on her shoulder, with his plucky pink lips pulled shut and his bright blue eyes trained solely on Barton. "I'm sure he learned it all from you."**_

_**As if to prove he can hear what they're saying about him, Francis nestles further into Jack like he's only too satisfied with her observation.**_

"_Birdie,__**" Barton tests the name out, his fingers mimicking the sign he watched her use just prior. **_

_**That one word, that one small hand movement, has Francis's mouth curving, rising high on his cheeks and splitting his face with joy. And Phil knows: while it has much to do with the pet-name and the sign used to communicate it, it has even more to do with the man using them.**_

"_**So congratulations on your legacy," Jack awards the other, knowing exactly what she's doing, "The world and I thank you for your contribution."**_

_**As much as Barton attempts for nonchalance, indifference even because he refuses to acknowledge his true relationship to this child, it falls flat. Much like his gruff demeanor (frown that stretches from his brow to his lips, arms still crossed over his chest only shifting with the stiff shouldered shrug) which fails him the moment that little boy smiles at him.**_

_**Francis sits up further to attention in Jack's arms, making a sign of his own in Barton's direction that is undeniably representative of '**__Archer__**'. By the third go, he's a little too enthusiastic and the plush action figure becomes like a projectile, its blue light blinking like an emergency response as it flies through the air to land easily in Barton's hand as if he'd been the target all along.**_

_**Phil watches as his asset stops fighting the instinct and lets the emotion the child instills in him come to the forefront with a brimming smile just for him.**_

_**And as much as Phil would like to share in the moment these two have created, he's torn. While this child will undoubtedly ensure that Barton is able to come back to himself, to remain human despite the actions he has and will continue to commit; personally crafting and maintaining such a separation from what is essentially a**_** p****art**_** of him will not be easy feat. That's why Phil's here though: to hold his hand through the good days and the bad – at least, that's how Jack would put it. He'd call it helping out a friend.**_

.

The way she later tells it is that she stumbled upon the pair out in the woods. Naturally neither he nor Barton had fallen for that. For one thing: Natasha Romanoff has never 'stumbled' at anything, not unless she's playing a mark. Not to mention he'd been the one to warn her off going looking for her _partner _in the first place.

The next part? Well, that Phil's more inclined to take as an accurate representation of events and how they unfolded. Given what he knows of the pair and the state they return to him in, it just seems more likely.

When she'd come across their presence it was to the sight of Francis holding a bow and aiming it at something in the distance under the elder's tutelage. She'd taken exception to the idea that Barton was training the boy up to lead their sort of life.

"So much for you being different, _better_, than those I left behind," she'd hissed at him in her native tongue.

So maybe Clint had let the kid graze her with an arrow on his behalf; apparently _she_ should've known him better than that.

Phil's not sure whether to be proud or exasperated. He supposes the fact they came back at all can be classed as progress and figures they'll work on the rest.

.

He likes spending time with Archer. He takes his hearing aids out and doesn't feel like he's missing out on anything. Archer uses his hands to speak to him and he knows how to answer the same way; it's like their own little language. Except, loads of other people know it too. So they've learned to adapt certain signs, make them their own, adding their own flair. One time Jack said it looked like they were doing some weird version of the _Hand Jive _and Archer had told her only people of a certain age knew what the _heck _she was talking about. She made them watch _Grease _and Archer complained for _days _afterwards that he was never going to get those hours of his life back. Jack looked super pleased with herself, so it didn't matter that he fell asleep less than half way through and didn't really know what they were talking about.

He likes those times the best. The flurry of movement, trying to go faster than the other, but still keeping up with what they're saying: it's fun. He always ends up laughing, and Archer always smiles at him then. Frans likes when he does that – _Francis _likes when he does that.

His name's different over here than it was when they were in Sweden, but Jack mostly calls him _Birdie_ and Archer calls him _Kid,_ so he supposes it doesn't matter so much what other folks call him.

Still, when he'd asked her why Jack had grinned at him and said it was 'cos Americans weren't as smart as the rest of them. When he'd said this to Archer, the man had told Jack to stop insulting Francis's heritage. He's not sure what that means, so he stores it away to look up when he's older.

He's also not sure why it means he has to add another two letters to his name, but he listens to Jack and does as she tells him.

He also listens to Archer, so when the man tells Francis to stay put, he does so. For a little while, at least. Well, Arch didn't really force the gesture, so he figures he's not in any _real_ danger. Besides, Archer wouldn't leave him if he was – and he's not really left him; he's just a little ways on up ahead.

"He's not a child soldier?" he hears a woman question, and she doesn't sound like she'd be happy with a yes _or _a no answer.

"Well if he was I'd be doing a pretty piss-poor job of training him, wouldn't I? Couldn't even get a kill shot in you before you bolted," Archer responds, and he does sound happy; but a strange kind of happy. Like Jack when she and Arch are in the same room, or Jack and Uncle Phil when they're together. He mostly sounds like Jack whenever she's with people other than Francis.

"Wouldn't be the first time you've been unable to release an arrow in my direction," the woman says, like she's taunting Archer with a time they shared together.

He watches Archer grin. "Oh, but I did release it this time," he says and he reaches out, flicks her cheek with the back of his fingers and comes away with blood drops across his knuckles, "Got you too. I thought your lot were supposed to bleed blue."

"The Royal Family were hemophiliacs, and they are not my descendants," the woman snips, and Francis can see her more clearly now. Her head is covered in dark red curls like the blood that stains the pale skin near her hairline.

Francis has a moment of guilt, because he did that. At least, he thinks he did. Archer ran off pretty quick after he released the arrow, so maybe the blood should be on his hands instead.

The elder shrugs. "Good thing too, or you'd be dead right now from that scratch, which would suck."

And that's when he chooses his moment: Jack's always said it's good to make an entrance. He thinks this is what she means. She'd be proud if she could see him now. She probably can: Jack likes being sneaky with the cameras around the property, says it's to keep an eye on him, but Francis isn't so sure. He's always good for Jack – well, mostly always.

He runs up to the pair as fast as his legs will carry him, which is pretty fast. "Hey, Archer!" he calls out; too loud, but not really caring.

The woman looks round as he skids to a stop just a little ways off from them to fiddle with his ear, quickly trying to slip the other aid back into place. He has tricky little fingers, but there's a reason even his ears have scars, sometimes his fingers move too quickly for everything else; he's not quite mastered how to slow them down yet, but he will.

She quirks a brow at the elder, repeating "Archer?" with an obvious question mark in her tone, which Francis doesn't understand. It's his _name_. Duh.

"_Come here_," Archer beckons him forward, and bends down in front of him, "_Let me_." Larger hands reach up, brushing his hair away and slipping the small devices properly into place.

He smiles, a little rueful that he needed assistance, and mutters, "Tack."

Archer just nods back at him, his lips curving a little, but he doesn't look angry or anything so Francis reckons he's in the clear.

He looks up at the woman staring at them and says, "Who're you?"

He says it in English, which is why he figures Archer doesn't mention his little slip up before.

Archer grins, wide and true, and looks between the two before he tells him gleefully, "This is Nat, Kid."

"You're Nat?" he says, "Archer talks about you, but I thought you were a fly, like the ones in the Bible – the things that annoyed everyone. They were one of the plagues. They came to punish all the folks."

"A _gnat_?" she says to that, eyebrows raised as she watches him.

"Yeah, I thought you were a gnat, Nat," and then he giggles at the mistake, "Oops."

Archer just shrugs as she looks across to him. "I can see how he'd think that," he comments, and he doesn't sound like he has a care in the world even though this Nat looks a little on the scary side, "Although I'm sure I mentioned you were of the female variety."

"Well at least he knew I was a _female_ flying creature from the Old Testament," she mutters, and she gives Archer a look like the one he sometimes gives Jack when he's not best pleased with her and she just ends up laughing in his face.

Archer shrugs. "All in the little things, Gnat."

He pronounces it like it's spelled, and Francis can tell he does it to deliberately annoying her.

"Don't." She shoots the other a warning look, but it's too late.

Francis catches on quick, as per, and pounces on the idea, "Hey, can I call you that? _Gnat_? Can I? Please? It's so funny! Gnat!"

"No," she tells him swiftly.

He's not one to be put off so easily though, "You don't look like one, you're too pretty, and you don't have wings, which kinda sucks 'cos it'd be cool if you could fly, but it's funny, and it's _you_. Gnat."

"Did you not hear me when I said not to call me that?" she replies, and she sort of sounds like Jack now when the elder's talking in a really low voice, all slow and no-nonsense and people just do as she says.

That should probably be enough to make him stop, but instead he scowls at her. "I heard you. I just didn't want to listen to what you had to say, _Gnat_," and this time he bites the word out in spite.

"Hey, stop killing the mood," Archer directs at her with a warning look of his own. "You crashed our party, remember? You don't get to do that just to be a buzzkill."

Which is Francis's point exactly. _She's _not even supposed to be here, so Francis can call her what he likes.

"You too," Archer says to him with a nudge, "Knock it off. She's your guest now, so treat her properly."

He rolls his eyes, but he listens to Archer like he does Jack. "Fine."

Plus, she must be mostly ok if Archer likes her enough to want to keep her around. He grins: he can't wait to see what Jack does when she sees the two of them.

He turns to Natasha. "Want to come back to the house with us?"

She looks like she really has to think about it for a moment before lifting one shoulder, meeting Francis's eyes and saying, "Da."

He grins at her when he hears the Russian inflection; he'll have to remember to tell Jack these new aids are good for making out other foreign people too. "So you're an alien too, huh?" He looks to Archer then, "Oh Jackie's gonna love this!"

And then he turns and runs in the direction of the house.

"Jack!" he shouts, barreling through the front door.

He thinks he hears Archer groan somewhere in the distance; but he might just be imagining that. The aids aren't _that _good.

"Archer found a friend in the woods. And it's a girl!" he calls out to Jack, amused to heckwith _this_ turn of events, "And guess who it is, Jack? It's _Gnat_!"

He definitely hears two groans then, and neither of them come from inside the house. He's still laughing when Jack emerges and goes to stand in the doorway to greet the two of them, although he's almost certain she knew they were coming before he told her. Jack knows everything that goes on around her.

.

They're fighting it out, sparring like they usually do, except this is slightly different from their training sessions in that she has a lot of pent up anger she's trying to take out on him. For his part he's too amused to be indignant at the fact she's annoyed at him for keeping secrets. Girl can dish it out, but apparently can't take it.

"Hey, where'd he go?" he asks Jack, pushing his sunglasses atop his head as they eventually walk back inside to a room that is now blatantly devoid of the kid's physical presence. "I thought you were just putting him in a bath and then he was coming back out?"

Jack jabs her thumb in the direction of the bed visible through the partially open doorway across the way. When she sees the pair of them still standing there, an expectant look on his face, she heaves a sigh, closes her book and stands up to lead them inside the kid's room.

She yanks back the covers although Clint suspects she'd known all along what they'd find: a pile of cushions lying there instead of a mini human.

"Hmm," she murmurs, like this is some big mystery as to where he could have gone, "Must be the added noise."

She shoots them both a look and then pulls the edge of the blanket up and peers under the bed frame.

"_You gonna come out of there any time soon, Birdie_?" He watches her sign the words as she says them, and though she's partially obscured from their view he knows Natasha is as keenly observant in such close quarters as he is. He thinks that should be cause alone to worry of the kid's wellbeing: that Jack would advertise the kid's hearing loss in front of Natasha when she's not vetted her fully. "_You got yourself some visitors here. Think they want to entertain you proper now_."

There's a muffled response that they take to be a negative.

"_Come on, those two big babies have stopped their squabbling, no more noise, come on out from under there_," Jack says.

"No," the small voice replies, "It's dark under here, and there wasn't any noise, until now."

Clint curses. "Shit, he's having a migraine?" He's dropped to his knees before waiting for an affirmative, ignoring the way one leg protests a little too readily at the movement, while Natasha stands back to watch.

It's testament to Jack's own feelings towards the kid, not to mention how she feels about Clint's relationship with him, that she just signs _money_ to him and doesn't say anymore on his loose-lipped curse in the presence of the four-year-old.

"Come on out kid, Nat's stopped chewing my ear out, so it's like Jack says – no more fighting, ok? We'll just sit quiet, no more shouting or hitting, how does that sound?" He figures repeating the fact might make that bit more believable. Maybe. "_Come on_," he coaxes, and he's signing now too in tandem with speaking the words because he's not sure how much visibility the kid really has under there. "_She's not as scary as she looks_."

"Yes, I am," comes the response to that; and she says it so matter-of-fact too, like it would never occur to her to say anything different, so why should it him?

He shoots her a look and then hisses in Russian, "_Really? That's how you choose to help_?"

"_It was helpful_," she returns in kind, "_He should know that there is a level of threat involved in dealing with __**us**__._"

He knows what she's trying to do here. She's aware that the kid means something to him, has accepted that he isn't training Francis up to be the next him or her or any version of a S.H.I.E.L.D operative in their midst. She's seen something of what he's like with the kid and this is her way of trying to twist him into being brutally honest with him like it's _the right thing to do_. It's a laughable state of affairs coming from her and her questionable moral compass, but fitting if it's another way for her to teach him a lesson. Attachments in their line of work are dangerous; they'll get you killed or get them killed. All of this he knows.

However, there's honest and there's realistic, and realistically the kid is way too young to be hearing that kind of talk even if they have been preparing him to run from it since he was six months old.

"_He's four years old,_" he replies, unimpressed, "_You tell him something like that he'll never come out from under the bed_."

She lifts one shoulder, while he straightens from his position, "_It's not the worst place to hide, although it is rather predictable_."

"_He likes it; it's dark and still and quiet, which is what he wants right now_." He defends the kid's actions, because they are smart and appropriate in the circumstances and she doesn't even know what she's talking about here.

"_Not like you then_," she mentions, makes him aware he's not the only one in this _partnership _that likes to keep an eye on the other. "_That's all you ever seem to want_."

"_And that's such a bad thing?_" he poses. Dark and still and quiet usually means a better vantage point, distance and a clear shot; you don't need to be in the thick of it to cause irreparable damage. Dark and still and quiet usually means he's under cover, shielded in the shadows. That he's managed to block out the chatter, the background noise; that he's focused. That he can breathe.

She doesn't comment.

"Stop," is what they hear through their exchange, and it's warbled enough that it's clearly come from the kid.

"Just throwing it out there," Jack says from her own position, watching the pair from more than an arm's-length away, but near enough to the kid that she could grab him and bolt if she needed to, "But maybe he's hiding out under there because you two idiots keep flinging curses and sniping at each other in a language he barely knows and trying to understand what either of you are saying has finally fried his brain. So he's retreated under there with the hope that your voices won't carry and he'll get some peace."

"Shit," Clint curses again in English, while Natasha remains silent. Talk about bringing the fight to the kid's doorstep.

He bends down again, turns his face away so he's half-obscured by the shadows peeking out from under the bed and makes sure his hands are clear in front of him.

"_We've stopped now. Really_," he tells Francis, "_No more_."

"It hurts," is the response this time, clearer now.

He lays himself down fully on the floor now, arm outstretched under the bed, coaxing the kid out of his hiding place.

"_Come here, kid_," he says, is well versed enough with the phrase that he only needs one hand to do it.

There's a shuffling and then a small hand clasps in his before he tugs the body out. Francis whimpers at the sudden change in light and looks set to scuttle back under, when Clint tugs him out completely and pulls him tight against his chest. The kid has one arm flung over his eyes and the other trying to cover one of his ears while he curls up and presses his face into the material of Clint's top.

"You smell," he's told, and the words start a rumble in his chest as he tries not to laugh.

"I know," he agrees. "Nat and I were outside, remember?"

Francis nods against his shirt, and looks like he's trying not to breathe in too much, his nose wrinkling in irritation when he fails.

Clint smiles, enjoying how easily and quickly the kid can amuse him, even when he doesn't mean to. "I'll have a shower once I get you sorted, ok?"

"I'm not having a shower with you," the kid says, sounding put out, and not at all agreeable to that course of action, "I'm all clean after my bath. Jack said so."

He smiles at that, agrees, "I know. I'll wait to have one until after you're feeling better, so I'll try not to make you too messy."

"Tack," is the grateful reply, and Clint doesn't have time to say anything else on the matter before the four year old is burrowing himself into his chest with a pained moan.

"Here," he says quietly, and pulls his sunglasses from his head to gently place over the kid's eyes, "Wanna try these?" And then he reaches up to remove the small devices from the kid's ears, "And how about we take these off too, hmm?" The boy stills ever so slightly and he says calmly, "Just us here, kid, so no need for anymore noise ok? We'll sign if we want to talk, yeah?" He holds the hearing aids out to Jack who places them in their box and then rests them on the side table.

She runs her hand over the back of the kid's head and then turns and pads noiselessly out the room; and he smiles to himself as he thinks of what the kid would say about that if he were fully with it right now. Probably that Jack's got them all wrapped up in a _trust bubble_ or some other shit like that, so they're all safe and good here now. Kid thinks the old woman's God's gift and obeys her every word; which in terms of keeping him safe and ensuring he'll actually listen to her when she says _run _is not exactly the worst thing in the world. It can be a pain in the ass on a day-to-day basis though; as even Saint Coulson will attest.

Clint signs the next part as he assures him, "_I'm here, kid. I got you. You're ok_."

Francis stays nestled in his arms as he rises and maneuvers them up onto the bed, lying down and using his free hand to tug a blanket over the pair of them.

After a short while, he watches the kid extract an arm from where it's tucked beneath him and lift one of the legs of the sunglasses up. He peeks open one eye to find Natasha sitting on the chair in the corner watching over them.

The kid opens his mouth, and as always he doesn't bother that he can't hear himself because he's home and the only people that are ever here are those that don't care about the volume. His tongue slips over the guttural tones in swipes that are as unnatural as the language to his tender years and he tells her in the staggered words of her native land, "_My Russian is not very good._"

Natasha leans forward, elbows resting on her knees and jerks her head in the direction of Clint. Her lips quirk up at one of the corners, and he watches her hold the kid's gaze, plush red lips parting with the enunciation clear in the words of his (adopted) home-country, "_Sounds better than your archer's English_."

Francis smiles at that, and Clint sees that twinkle in his eye that he always gets whenever he hears Swedish around him before he lets the sunglasses drop back onto the baby bridge of his nose and nuzzles into Clint's chest. She leans back, crossing her arms and legs, satisfied; eyes staying fixed on their figures.

Eventually the kid falls asleep in Clint's arms, curled in a tight ball, dark glasses still shielding his face.

"Why is he like that?" she asks when the soft breath of slumber against his chest is the only other sound in the room, and the question would weigh as heavy in the light as the darkness surrounding them now.

"There's nothing's wrong with him," is his instant response, guilty and defensive and true all at once.

"I never said there was," comes her even return.

When he looks over at her he can see the evidence even if he didn't already know. She doesn't mean it negatively; she's genuinely interested, sympathetic even – if he is to believe such a thing possible of her. He looks down at Francis, curled up sleeping in his arms, and thinks if the kid can't soften the Widow, nothing can.

"He lost most of his hearing when he was six months old. The aids help – and with Jack's embellishments they probably help even more. The migraines, the sensitivity to light, it's like there's an overload on his senses sometimes," Clint divulges, "It happened – it's from before."

He doesn't explain, but her reputation at interrogation well precedes her so he doesn't imagine he has to. It's a cop-out, he knows, but he doesn't think he'll ever find the words to be able to say it's all his fault; everything the kid is going through.

So he sticks with what he can do: being there when it matters, and he makes sure that counts.

.

It's early evening and Francis is sitting on the front porch, wedged in between Natasha's side and a stack of cushions he's obviously shoved out of the way to be closer to her, completely ignoring her attempt at keeping some semblance of distance between them. Clint's lips curve at the sight; kid has a way of wheedling his way into your psyche, not that he's entirely complaining.

"I didn't know you kept Russian books around this place," he comments, watching the pair, "No wonder Nat agreed to stick around."

Jack arches a brow at him as if to ask if he is being serious right now and if so, she can't quite believe the stupidity of him. She sniffs. "We don't."

"Ah," he voices and turns back to look at the duo. Apparently his partner has taken it upon herself to translate the book into her native tongue. Well, this should be interesting.

"Where Phil finds you lot is beyond me, some archive room no one goes near anymore or the dregs of society, no doubt," Jack remarks, and there seems to be a fine line between her being derisive and mildly charmed by the notion; as there usually is with the elder. "I swear the strays he attracts get weirder and weirder with every passing year."

"Must be your welcoming nature," Clint returns with a wide grin.

She huffs and twists the thick strip of material in her hands, swatting him with it. "You're making me old before my time."

"Pretty sure you were pushing seventy when we met," is his reply to that.

It turns out the material is the kid's dressing gown and the ties wrap themselves around his arm with her quick snap of movement.

"Didn't know you were into the kinky stuff, Jack," he remarks, eyeing up the restraint and her hold on it.

"Did no one ever teach you not to question a woman's age?" She yanks on the straps and they leave a faint rope burn when they unravel from his wrist.

He lifts one shoulder, the barest attempt to act like the innocent, victimized party here. "Did I specify an exact birth date?"

She shakes her head at him, like she's disappointed with the world in general starting with him. "The men definitely had more charm in my day."

He laughs at that, because now she's just playing with him. And given the kid pulled on his superhero top ("check out my cape as I fly past you, Arch!") before rushing on by him to join Nat outside on the porch is an opening he can't resist. Francis fiddles with the brim of the blue hood just at that moment, and it's like he's taunting Clint into saying something about it: the thing's got an eye-mask sewn on the front underneath a star for flip's sake.

"It was Captain America wasn't it?" he says, openly amused and quite happy to show it, "You and Coulson bonded over your love for the man, the myth, the legend."

"Fairly sure you're mixing up your Supers there," she comments at that, sparing him a sideways glance.

He shrugs, both shoulders this time. "So what? You lived through the era and he idolized it so you regaled him with stories and he indulged you with his playing cards and all his other mint-condition merchandise?" He's laughing again. "Oh this is just too good."

"Like I said," she states, deadpan as ever, "They had more charm."

"Must like me some, Jack," he grins at her, not one to be put off and half teasing, half true, "You put up with the kid."

"He knows how to treat a woman," she dismisses.

"Rude," he'd act offended, but this is all part of how they do, "I know how to treat a woman. Ask Nat."

She lifts an eyebrow at that suggestion. "I'm not asking that woman anything, you can keep that crazy. I'm going to have enough trouble dealing with the aftermath."

"She's not that bad," he says to that and looks to her with wide eyes that beseech her to take his word for it for once.

Her response to that is to turn and leave the room. Of course that could have something to do with the fact that when he next looks over at the pair, Natasha has what looks like a Bible sitting in her lap as Francis points to the pages with his usual unrestrained enthusiasm. He's never taken her as a believer, but given present company he supposes it's possible she's making an exception. When in Rome, and all that.

.

Jack is with Francis in his room, having bathed him and put him to bed, now she's readying him for evening prayers. Clint supposes he should have some opinion about her indoctrinating the kid into her faith and maybe he does, but what did he really expect when he rocked up on her doorstep all those years ago and left the kid in the arms of a Irish kook who conversed with Jesus on a daily basis? Besides, he's always figured it wasn't his place, and believing in something is better than nothing and who is he to begrudge the kid that? He passes by the door on his way back to Natasha in the sitting room, when he stops at the sight, the sounds.

"Hey, Jack," the kid says, "Can I show you something?"

She nods and he smiles, obviously pleased; his face lights up under the glow of the bedside lamp.

"Watch this – or listen – or… do both? Do one of them anyway, you'll like this, just watch, listen – "

"Alright, out with it," she prompts. She accompanies it with a tap on the bed to spur him on, but her tone is indulgent as it often is with him. Clint wouldn't put it past her to have slapped the kid's leg through the bedding to get him to act like he was readying his horse and all his men to go ride off into battle the way Francis's face splits in a grin again. Sometimes Clint thinks she must enjoy the kid's games as much as he does to all day every day with it.

So the kid begins, "_Pater noster qui es in coelis…_"

He hears her intake of breath, watches as she takes in the Latin, her eyes trained on his little hands as they sign the accompaniment and she joins him in reciting the Lord's Prayer.

"Did you like it?" he asks when they've finished, "Nat taught me it earlier, she says I have an ear for languages." He tugs one of his hearing aids out with the joke, "Get it? An _ear_ for languages!"

She opens his charger case and takes the device from him as he dissolves in a fit of laughter. "You'll have a thick ear in a minute if you don't settle down," she tells him, but there's mirth in her tone and a crinkling around her eyes.

He does as he's told, pulling out the other aid and holding it out to her and she places it alongside the other before closing the lid and putting the small box on his nightstand for easy access when he wants them.

He lies back and tugs the covers up to his chest and Jack leans over, smoothing away his fringe from his eyes, looking directly at him as her hands form the shapes to go with her words, "_Thank you, Birdie_."

The kid's still smiling when she turns off the light and closes the door.

"Tell your girl thanks," she says to Clint as he stands there waiting out the nightly ritual.

"You can tell her yourself," he replies, and he can't resist smirking at her.

She _hmphs_, but makes her way down the hall to the room Natasha's in anyway. He grins: progress. He wonders what Coulson'll make of it all; he can't wait to point out it was mostly all his doing that led to this happy ending.

There's a portrait of Jesus on the wall watching over him as he watches the two females in the other room. He nods to the long-haired gent, like they're in this together, and then feels the weight of two potent stares on him and makes a clumsy sign of the cross instead.

Jack looks like she'd burst out laughing if she wasn't so satisfied with the result; like this has been her ploy all along, to lure them to her shack in the middle of nowhere and convert them all and then send them out across the globe to do her bidding. Natasha's lips curl up slightly at the corners, like she's equal parts amused by his actions and pleased with the outcome of her own.

When in Rome indeed.

He feels like he's just been played, on all fronts.

Fuck. They'll be the death of him this lot.

.

When the pair return together, Phil doesn't say a word. Barton has bruises, some hidden, some not-so, and a limp that's only pronounced when he's reached his own quarters. Romanoff has a thin slice that runs from the top of her cheek through her hairline to split cleanly through the tip of her ear, as well as a shiner that looks like it's coloring spectacularly under her cover-up. Apparently they hashed out their differences in their most favorable way.

"So much for 'personal time', boss," Clint grunts at him as he goes by.

He looks to Natasha.

She shrugs, looking unperturbed, "So maybe the meaning got a little lost in translation."

.

He's four years old when he learns you don't have to be from a place to have a life there; and sometimes just knowing someone is as good as belonging to them.

.

**TBC**

* * *

Thanks for reading, it means alot.  
Feel free to drop me a line with your thoughts.  
Steph


	3. Six Years

A/N: flashbacks are in _**bold italics  
**_Anything in another language other than spoken English will generally be in _italics_.

Oh, and **WARNING: **think there's a swear word or two in this one. (If memory serves the last chap was exceedingly tame, while the first was peppered with them here and there.)

* * *

Chapter Three

.

He's six years old when he discovers the risk with positioning yourself anywhere is the distance in the fall. They show him he can survive the drop and teach him how to pick himself up and climb back up the ladder.

.

Tasha gets him a plane. That's exactly how Clint phrases it in front of the kid too, because Nat had used the word '_acquired_' and there was no way in Hell he was opening that can of worms. Either way, it's his to keep.

He takes the kid up in it, Tasha too, except his co-pilot isn't quite as fascinated by the outside world as the sprog running round in the back. Kid's all excitable over what he can see from the plane as it hovers over the clouds; the view from above so very different from life in it.

"I love going on planes, you know?" Francis announces; as if that wasn't obvious.

Clint looks over his shoulder and indulges him anyway. "I know."

Cocky little thing that he can be, he'd asked Jack if she'd throw him a party for his last birthday and because there never seems to be much difficulty persuading either of them to do as the other asks, she'd readily agreed. And since the woman can never be said to do things halfway, when Francis had requested a party to the theme of "airplanes, clouds in the sky, pilots, little teensy tiny houses and people below – the works", she'd given it to him in spades. And he and Nat were there to witness the whole thing. So yes, he knows the kid loves planes.

.

_**It's true when he turns up on their doorstep with Nat in tow, he expects some sort of enthusiasm at their appearance – at least on the kid's part, Jack always likes to play the 'I'm severely put out by your presence' card. What he's not quite expecting is for the kid to go absolutely off-his-nut-crazy with excitement at the sight of them.**_

_**Apparently it's his birthday the week coming (Jack still claims it's as accurate a date as if she was standing in the delivery room herself, but Clint thinks she's full of shit and she just picked a date that seemed roughly in line with the age of the kid when she got him).**_

_**So naturally the kid assumes they're here to celebrate with him, and because they'd shed about three layers off themselves and their other life before they arrived, including their super secret S.H.I.E.L.D Agent statuses and alter-ego personas, neither of them is prepared to bear the brunt of Francis's disappointment.**_

_**He's pretty sure half the reason Jack agrees to the kid's sudden wide-eyed request of, "Can I have a party, Jack? Please? Please? Please? Can I have one? With Archer and Gnat and you and me and can I? Can I?" is because she wants to see the two of them squirm at the thought of spending any prolonged length of time trapped in a room with multiple screaming pint-sized beings.**_

_**That's pretty much exactly what happens too; but while Nat suggests they try and **__fit in __**to avoid standing out, he's more of the opinion that they can fit in with the shadows in the rafters or avoid standing out by positioning themselves in the back room **__away __**from the**_ _**copious number of sugar-hyped ankle-biters.**_

_**They compromise by setting up in the kitchen, adjacent to the large hall currently housing the little maniacs. Jack's good enough to leave them some cupcakes to munch on while they "hide out like big ninnies" (her words) and wouldn't you know it the woman can bake about as well as she can do everything else; that is to say extremely well. Because you know being able to make delicious, sugar-filled treats for a bunch of six year olds and their over-bearing parents is totally on par with hacking into a government agency, or tapping into a convoluted relay system, or the million other things Jack seems fully able and knowledgeable about. Like hiding a kid in plain sight for years. Even Tasha indulges in more than one piece of cake, and isn't that something.**_

_**They're pretty confident that since the food's already on the tables and there are numerous strategically placed trash cans they'll be fine where they are, undisturbed by the masses for the majority of the event. Apparently they seriously underestimated the needs of these parents to try be everywhere all at once, just in case their child might venture somewhere at some point or other.**_

_**Clint ends up caving first, although Nat's not too far behind.**_

**_He takes the back stairs two at a time and comes out on the landing directly above one end of the hall. He maneuvers past the thick rope that hangs from the tower and drops down by the stone carved railing, pushing his feet through the openings between the balusters like arrows slipping through the specially-designed cracks in the old castle walls he sees in those history books in the kid's room. (Because it's not as if he has first hand knowledge of such an act and puts them to use himself when the opportunity presents itself and he just so happens to be in the mood to mix business with _**_culture.** Nah,** Archer** wouldn't know anything about that sort of thing.)**_

**_The kid is on his third outfit change of the day – yes, third. And ok, so he was a little badass looking thing in the flight suit, with his hair all spiked up _**_just-so** and rocking the gold-framed aviators Clint and Natasha got him (not to mention the helmet tucked under his arm that looked a little more real than replica, and came dangerously close to cracking a few skulls at times). And yeah maybe he looked like the slickest dude in town in the airline pilot costume, shoes shined and polished like he'd been schooled by his **Uncle Phil. **And sure, he looks ace as fuck in his old-school get up complete with beat-up leather bomber, the matching hat that has his bangs constantly falling in his eyes, scarf tied round his neck and goggles perched on top his head. But still, three wardrobe changes is ridiculous, even for this kid.**_

_**There's a stack of pamphlets within arms reach of where he's sitting so he grabs them and starts folding. The first projectile swoops and swirls and hits the guy on the far side of the room square in the back of his head. The guy rubs at the sore spot with one hand and picks up the culprit with his other, spinning on the spot as he tries and fails to pinpoint where it could've come from. Clint can see the pain etched into the lines around the guy's eyes and he smiles. Good, he hopes it hurts; guy's a dick.**_

_**He hears a snicker from below and looks down to see the kid watching him; he winks at him and sends another paper airplane flying. He's somewhat disappointed that none of these so called 'hyper-vigilant' individuals seem to have noticed where all the impromptu airborne aircraft are coming from, but given Jack's got a wind machine on the go and the place is covered with fluffy makeshift cloud pillows and hundreds of planes suspended from the ceiling he **__supposes__** he can give them a pass. It's not like they've actually been taught to always be aware of their surroundings like a trio of adults in their midst and a certain six year old.**_

_**Maybe in another life he'd say those folks are the lucky ones, but as it is he thinks they all need to open their eyes a bit more to the world around them. Anyone could be pointing an arrow at them at any moment – or a paper airplane.**_

.

"Look at that view!" the kid enthuses, beaming, face pressed close to the glass.

He'd forgone the offer of the jump seat, instead opting for the back of the plane. It's only too apparent why as he leaps from one side to the other, hopping across the seats without a care, trying to get his fill of the scenery that surrounds them at this height.

"Man, even the clouds look cool from up here!" Francis flops back against his seat, content. Then he suddenly freezes, full body rigid, and implores of them, "Don't tell Jack I said that – she'll have me relearning the weather system like cumulus and stratus are going out of fashion."

Clint throws him a smirk over his shoulder, but neither agrees nor disagrees with his terms.

He looks over at Nat and finds her lips quirking at the kid's antics.

The kid lets out a sigh, settling back into the cushions. His head nestles well below the designated headrest, shaggy blond mane rumpling even further against the upholstery as he says, "Man, I could die happy up here."

Beside Clint, Natasha drops the smile.

"Stop talking," she immediately instructs.

Her tone is no-nonsense and the problem here is he can see both sides now, and he can understand it; but that doesn't mean he likes it.

"What she means is," he cuts in quickly, aiming for hasty damage control even though he knows he's already too late, "Don't say things like that, kid. You shouldn't – " He sighs, but finishes up anyway, "You're not going anywhere anytime soon, so don't – don't ever think that, ok?"

It's not that they're walking on eggshells with the kid; it's just that since their first meeting Nat's never been anything close to the Widow around him. He knows the kid's not exactly aware of his partner's in-field persona, but just because Francis can't put a name to the character, doesn't mean he can't feel the sting of the action.

Clint can tell the kid is confused though, because when he's confused and upset he gets this vicious, little vindictive streak about him. He doesn't get away with it in Jack's presence, but Jack's not here right now.

"I've seen this plane before, Arch," Francis says, and for someone so young he can fairly weight his words when he wants to, "In the picture Jack keeps. So it's not yours at all and you should give it back."

When Clint chances another look round at the kid, he's sitting boring holes into the backs of their chairs. He's yanked his hearing aids out, and they're currently being crushed in the tiny fists he's clenching in his lap.

"You're big liars!" is the accusation, and it's more of a shout because of the lack of feedback from his own voice than a necessity to be heard. "I want Jack! Take me back to Jack!"

They're much worse than that, but Clint doesn't say anything to that effect because wouldn't that cause a reaction.

Instead he turns back to the empty sky before them and stares straight into the approaching clouds.

Natasha's hands are on the controls, and she's trying so determinedly not to clench her knuckles into white bone around the instruments. Though she doesn't show it on her face, he can tell the kid's words have punctured her insides.

"Fuck," he mutters, and then repeats it over and over as he turns the plane around and heads back where they came from.

.

_**He turns at the approaching footsteps, expecting Natasha but meeting another figure in black instead.**_

"_**If you were a few decades younger, I'd swear I was looking at the twin of that boy down there," comes the conversational starter as the man takes up place next to him, leaning forward along the edge of the balcony.**_

"_**A few decades?" he repeats, looking up and shaking his head, clucking his tongue, "You wound me, Father, two and half at most."**_

_**There's soft laughter at that, and then comes the line, "He seems to share your affinity for high places at least."**_

"_**Yeah," Clint agrees; thinks there are worse traits Francis could pick up from him, "Kid loves his planes."**_

"_**As I imagine my congregation could attest if he wasn't kept on a tight leash during Sunday Mass," the elder remarks, with fondness in his voice.**_

_**He looks up and the Priest is smiling at him. He follows the elder's gaze to the dwindling pile of what he now recognises to be a jumble of bulletins for the order of service, all with mismatched dates and topped with his latest creation. Kid's probably been snagging a few to add to his stash of ammo for months. Smart.**_

"_**Resourceful that one," Clint remarks, and dips his head in the general direction of the kid.**_

"_**The door to the back stairs is usually locked when he slips up here too," is the elder's response to that.**_

_**He sends the Priest a vaguely rueful smile. "Really? I'm sure it was open before I came up."**_

"_**Tricky little fingers," the man comments, "Seems to be a common occurrence around here."**_

_**He tuts the elder, educating him on their preferred school of thought, "Only if you're caught, right Father?"**_

_**It's probably not something he should say to a man of the cloth, but he's been getting a vibe from the elder so he decides to just go with it.**_

_**It pays off.**_

_**There's a rumble of laughter from the space next to him and he lets his smile show his triumph. "I suppose that's one way of looking at it," the Priest concedes; the affection in his tone becoming even more noticeable. "And sneaking into the chapel to attend another Mass is considerably more favourable than ducking out the side exit in the middle, I'll give him that. His methods can be a little questionable at times, but his heart's in the right place."**_

"_**He's a good kid really," Clint says, his eyes already seeking out the boy in the crowd below. He breathes out a laugh and runs a hand over his face as he watches Francis dodge in between all the other bodies, repeatedly tearing the number card from the back of one seat and replacing it with another, utterly confusing all those trying to take part in Jack's 'flight-academy' version of **__Musical Chairs. __**He catches sight of Jack watching his every move, and sees her shake her head at the six year old with half-hearted exasperation. He can be such a little shit at times, but he really does keep them on their toes; there's never a dull moment when the kid's around that's for sure.**_

"_**It's not difficult to see where he gets it from," the elder awards him, and when Clint's head snaps up at that the Priest is smiling down at him. "When you've been in this job as long as I have you get to recognize those individuals trying to repent for past sins," the man says, not unkindly, and gestures to the open space below as he offers a word of praise for the job well done, "Keep going, son, the payoff's already proving to be worth it."**_

_**Clint follows the man's gaze and watches as Jack swallows Francis up in her arms, squirming and excitable with a fistful of crumpled place-cards that he tries to bury in the elder's thick white curls. She laughs right along with the boy in her embrace and the kid looks as happy as he ever does.**_

_**Yeah, so maybe they're doing something right in the world.**_

.

"Kid said he'd seen the plane before – in some photos of yours," he broaches the subject the minute he manages to corner her when they get back. Francis stomps off outside and Nat retreats to the back room, and when no one bothers to answer Jack's question of, "_what eating you lot?_" and then her more direct one to him of, "_you didn't crash the thing already, did you?_" she throws her hands up in the air, rolls her eyes at the lot of them and returns to her previous task. They'll tell her soon enough and she'll deal with it when they do.

"Mhmm," Jack murmurs, but doesn't raise her head or stop fiddling with the electronics in front of her; the only indication she gives him that she's listening, almost a cue for him to carry on if he must.

"Didn't think you kept any personal effects here," he remarks, and it's almost offhanded, but an accurate observation all the same.

She does physically respond to that. She arches a brow at him and gestures to the space that surrounds them, covered in trinkets and material items.

"Personal effects of any real meaning," he rephrases; because sure she has a lot of _stuff _in every place they set up house, but as far as he can tell it's all fairly generic, part of like she could (and does) up sticks and leave it all behind without so much as a backward glance or second thought.

"Plane's not mine," she tells him, slaps the circuit board down on the table and spins round in the chair to face him, clasps her hands together in her lap. "Never was."

"Just yours to give away?" he asks, watching, waiting for her to reveal something; considers it a sign in itself that she seems so adamant to cover her tells.

"Just mine to give away," she repeats with a nod, and then smiles, "I imagine the stories you had in your head of how your girl acquired it for you were a tad more action-packed than me simply handing over coordinates for the lock-up and telling her to have at it, if she wants it, it's yours."

"Who did it used to belong to?" he questions, skipping over her amateur attempt at turning the conversation to him and Nat.

And for a moment he doesn't think she's going to answer, and then she opens her glasses case, the one that's seemed like an extra appendage to her person since he met her. She pulls out a small, well worn photograph and holds it out to him.

There's a man and a woman standing in front of the very plane he now owns. She's pressed close to his side, half splayed over his chest, with his arms around her as they lean against the exterior of the cockpit. They look happy, and completely wrapped up in one another.

Jack smiles at him again, taps the corner of the image and introduces him to: "My husband."

.

"_**Unburdening your soul?" Natasha inquires, and he lifts his head to watch her slink along the short corridor to join him. She crosses her legs at the ankles and bends at the waist, leaning her elbows on the stone railing to look over at the sight that's captured his attention, sparing him a glance with the words, "You realise how terribly cliché that is, right?"**_

"_**You know you're the only confessional I need, Tasha," he replies to that, turning to face her and smirking up at her.**_

_**She rolls her head to the side so he can watch her roll her eyes at him, and then she goes back to observing the party below. Her lips quirk up every so often with the soft smile she reserves for the kid, and it's sort of endearing to watch.**_

"_**Hey, Tash?" he says after a short while. **_

_**She twists her head to look at him, and then mimics his tone, "Yes, Clint?"**_

_**The munchkins below have moved on to what looks like it's supposed to be 'Airplane Tag'. It mostly consists of the boys throwing themselves around, slamming into the walls and tossing their bodies on the floor to dodge out of each other's way, while the girls either squeal at the intrusion into their personal space or wordlessly pirouette out of the advancing body's way. He wonders if the blatant gender stereotypes bother Natasha or she just resolves to ensure the kid is aware this isn't always the case. Between her and Jack, Clint reckons they've got a strong case in their favour.**_

"_**You ever wonder if we can actually make up for what we've done?" he asks, and he knows the topic would seem out of place to outsiders, when children's laughter is literally echoing all around them, but it's no good a Priest giving him his blessing if he's not got Nat on his side. "All the shit we've put people through with the lying and stealing. Cheating them an' hurting them an' killing them," he says, "You ever think we can wipe the slate clean, free our souls of it all and start fresh?"**_

_**She holds his gaze, and he knows she'll answer him as best she can; she won't play with him, not on this.**_

"_**I think what we've done will always be a part of us and we can't change that, not when it's shaped us into what – who – we are now," she tells him, and then offers him something attainable to go with it, "But that doesn't mean we should stop trying to make a difference; to balance the scales, so to speak."**_

"_**So there's hope for us yet?" he surmises, quirking his lips up at her.**_

_**She puffs out a laugh. "Surviving this would be a good start."**_

"_**Pfft," he fobs off her apparent concern, recognising it for the sham that it is, and solving their non-existent dilemma with a completely plausible escape route. "Worst comes to worst we take them all out and reset the clock."**_

_**She seems to consider this, lips pursing and hesitating like she's never prone to doing in the field, and then proposes, "We could maybe spare one or two of them."**_

"_**Really? Survivors?" He lifts a brow and goes for complete surprise, because this is unlike her. Dare he even think it? This place has changed her.**_

"_**Well," she quirks her lips, jerks her head in the direction of the only pair they're really concerned with, "I think we can make an exception for them, since they've made one for us."**_

"_**Repaying a debt, Natasha?" He shakes his head, and allows his smile to show, fully-formed and facing her. "How very unlike you."**_

_**She shoves him, hard. "Shut up or I'll toss you over this balcony."**_

"_**You wouldn't," he calls her bluff, still grinning at her only now it's got that cocky edge she tends to bring out in him more than most, "I'd kill one of the halflings down there. Think of the children, Natasha! The children!"**_

_**She shakes her head at his out-and-out dramatics, his impassioned speech accompanied by a hand clutched to his chest and wide, pleading eyes.**_

"_**Silly American," she chides and then pushes him forward so he smacks his head off the join between the nearest baluster and the handrail, "We already agreed we were only sparing two of them."**_

_**When he pulls back it's to see her walking away, and when she looks over her shoulder at him with an all-too-pleased look as he rubs at the sore spot by his hairline, he can't help but shake his head and breathe out a laugh.**_

_**She's really something that one.**_

.

Natasha is watching him through the window at the back of the property. He's still upset by the events of earlier and it shows in his frustration at performing what should be rather simple tasks, given those employed as his tutors and the hours of work put into perfecting such routines. He's managed to secure the thick piece of rope up and over a high branch, round the wide trunk of the tree for added support and then into the nearby ground (after much fiddling with the knots and repeated stomping on the metal peg to hold it all in place).

When he hoists the giant contraption up into the air and it stays suspended in its place, he checks the rope is fed through the various eyelets on the front and back, and then gives each section a sharp, swift tug to test the tension before releasing it. Satisfied, he steps back to admire his hard work.

A feeling somewhat similar to that displayed on the kid's face rises up inside her, and that's when she chooses to take her leave and turns to walk into the adjoining bathroom.

She's not exactly sure _why _she never considers it to be a functional _plaything_ as opposed to something to dress the back yard that they could admire and watch sway back and forth in the breeze like wind-chimes. It's a gift courtesy of Phil Coulson, of course it has a practical purpose.

That's her first mistake – maybe her second as well. It's not just that she takes her eyes off the target; it's that she overestimated his capabilities. And now he's suffering for something she did.

She's the closest to his position, so she has a front row seat to the before, during and after. Not for the first time she wishes she didn't have such a knack for being in the _right place at the right time_.

She's walking back into the bedroom when it happens. She looks up and through the glass pane just in time to see him soaring through the air on that wooden airplane swing.

That's all well and good. The ropes hold, the knots twisted and taut, the framework is sturdy, strong enough to bear his weight, and he's enjoying himself; brimming smile on his face, wind near sweeping the cap off his head as it whips across his face.

Until it isn't. She's not sure if it's his own momentum that has him tipping forward, or the sudden slack of rope, or possibly a fastening coming loose somewhere along the factory line. What she does know is that she watches, frozen to the spot, as Francis pitches forward, the carved wooden sculpture following after like its one of his limbs flying through the air. He tries to stick his landing, but the weight of solid timber knocks him off his feet and he ends up tumbling to the ground in a messy heap.

She's moving before he is, and she's not sure if that should frighten her, but it does spur her on.

She calls out to Clint and Jack as she rushes out the back door and tears across the yard towards him.

He's just managing to pull himself up into a sitting position as she reaches him and she drops to the ground in front of him, rattling off questions.

He's feebly trying to bat her hands away, letting out little whimpering sounds in between and she's ashamed to admit it takes her that long to realize he doesn't have his aids in.

It's only when he manages to grab hold of one of hers as she tries to feel for injured areas and hold tight to it that she stops and takes notice of what he's trying to say to her.

"_Sorry, sorry,_"he rushes out with, his fingers releasing her hands to beat against his chest, circling his heart, "_Don't wanna die in the air, Gnat. Don't wanna, you're right – m'sorry!_"

He near shouts the last part; torn between pain and guilt and a desperation to be heard. She immediately reaches up and pushes the cap, already askew with the rush of air and the fall, up and off his head. Smoothing his bangs away from his eyes, she lets her palm rest there on his cheek for a moment.

And then she signs to him, "_It's ok, kid, breathe, I'm here,_" and watches him calm before her eyes.

By the time Clint and Jack reach them, she's ascertained that his arm is the cause of most his discomfort and his head hurts – _sort of_.

Jack apparently worked in the medical trade in her past life; because she takes one look at the kid and tells him he's broken his arm and oh look now they're going to have to go to the clinic to set it, because she's not being stuck with a kid with a gimp arm for the rest of her life. Yes, really. And if he's broken his head too, they can keep him there.

It's a wonder anyone falls for her nice little old lady routine, although Natasha can appreciate the art of deception and a well-maintained cover.

Clint wraps the kid in his jacket and scoops him up in his arms, while Jack goes inside to get something to make a splint and sling out of, and Natasha is left with the job of picking up the discarded sneakers, stuck in the mud, and reluctant to leave. They're not the only ones.

"_Jack's gonna be mad_," Francis fumbles to sign one-handed. He's usually a whiz at it, but the position and pain are hindering him significantly. He nods at the shoes Natasha has pinched between her thumb and forefingers: they used to be orange, now they're as dark as the shoelaces still tied together in big loops, holding in a mud mold rather than child-size feet. They go with his cap, which is now stained with blood from the gash in his hairline. And while his dark jeans haven't suffered from the color of the terrain or a split to his insides, there's a tear across his knee that will never recover. Oh, and the T-shirt that used to be white is now marked with red, brown and green like the kid took some of his markers and just went at it, and his denim shirt is torn at the site of impact from his elbow all the way down to the cuff that's turned up along his mid-forearm. Kid takes after Jack and someone else Natasha happens to know: he doesn't do anything half-way.

"_I think she'll live_," Natasha dryly responds, signs the words too even though this is usually a practice she's not involved in; especially when it's just the two of them together. "_She's a fan of shopping in any format_."

"_Yeah, but I wrecked Uncle Phil's present_," he grumbles, stumbling over the appropriate hand movements; because signing is harder than he likely could've anticipated with one arm pressed close to his side and the other trying to keep it steady while swathed in Clint's strong hold.

"_That'll teach you to attempt construction work and aero-transport before you've mastered your physics and engineering lessons_," Jack appears before them to comment, and holds up her other hand to show off the books she's carrying, their colorful spines deliberately positioned to face him so he can read their titles, "_But don't worry, I plan to bring your books so you can learn along the way and we can knock something into your head today other than dirt and wooden plane parts_."

The kid tries to burrow into Clint's chest with those words, to the sound of combined laughter.

"_I told you she'd be mad,_" Francis says in what should really be too loud to be constituted a mumble, but it's muffled enough against the cotton of Clint's shirt it comes out that way. And the way his little fingers emerge to half-heartedly form the accompaniment only adds to his sad little act.

"_Nice try_." Jack's not falling for it for a minute, and it's a testament to how they work that Francis sits up in Clint's arms with her single gesture to do so, and lets her swiftly wrap his arm, sending her a small smile that's immediately returned and a meek _"Thanks Jackie"_ when she's done.

"_What do you say we go get that broken wing of yours put back together, eh Birdie?_" she says to his enthusiastic, if a little tired nod of the head.

"_Come on, kid_," Clint announces, although they're already all moving out, "_We'll get you patched up and have you back on your feet in no time._"

.

Jack makes them drive three towns over and across the next door state before seeking out the first medical clinic available. She suggests he play _I spy_ and tells him she wants to hear him saying the words as well as signing them. By the time they get there Archer and Gnat are looking at Jack sorta like how Homer looks at Bart right before he throttles him. It's funny to see, but no one actually tries to strangle anyone – at least, not while he's around. What they do when he's not around is a whole 'nother matter entirely.

She's got his aids, and he doesn't ask to put them back in. His head's still sort of hurting and anyway she says he'll need them out when he gets it checked by the machine. It doesn't matter so much, since Jack'll probably do most of the talking, but she lets him pick where he wants to be from. He chooses _Swedes on vacation_ and slips into his mother tongue like he's never stopped. Even if he can't hear himself saying the words, he can see Jack smiling when he does it and there's nothing really like it.

Gnat and Archer both send short, sharp looks her way, as if it means something and maybe they shouldn't do it; but Jack sends them a look of her own and neither says a word against it.

Francis smiles; Jack's a peach when she's being a bossy madam.

.

They're waiting out in the car, because they all agree that three people accompanying a kid into an emergency room when none of them will be ticking the box of 'parent' might arise suspicion and direct unnecessary attention their way. Although they could just lie; which is what she imagines Jack is doing right now. Admittedly, the assumed foreigners on vacation cover the two adopted before they'd even stepped out of the car and into the building is fairly convincing; but that could be because it's mostly based on truth.

"He's very breakable," she comments, garnering her partner's immediate attention.

Clint's been staring at the entrance to the medical centre too long for her liking. As if he's willing the kid to come racing out those double doors, cured and healthy again as he goes straight for him.

"We all are." He shrugs, seemingly unperturbed, but she knows better.

She's not. Not really, not like this, not like the kid. And he's not either; well, to an extent.

"He just seems more so 'cos he's little, but not so squishy anymore," Clint tells her, as if he doesn't need to hear her say the words to translate what she's thinking. She wonders if it's a learned trait from spending so much time around the kid and being a part of his little world; or if he just knows her that well.

She thinks it's probably a little of both.

"He'll bounce back soon enough," he says her, giving her a poor attempt at a smile. "Just wait."

She relays her belief in him, in the kid, by placing her hand over his and threading her fingers through the spaces he's left for her to fill.

She doesn't voice any of what she's thinking though, because there's something unsettling about it all and she doesn't enjoy being unsettled.

.

The doctors allow Jack to take Francis home under strict instructions to follow their after-care program. It mostly consists of stuff they're well-versed in already, like repeatedly checking the kid can say his own name, making sure he doesn't spontaneously decide to puke his guts out or become so dizzy he keels over and knocks himself out again. Things like that. Someone on the med staff even prints them off a handy sheet of things to look out for, which Jack hands to the kid with the instruction to _practice his English language_.

He appears by the car window and waves his big purple cast around until Clint pops open the door and drags him inside.

Jack steps into the driver's seat, while Natasha transfers to the front, and shoots a look over her shoulder at the pair of them. "I blame you," she states.

He laughs. "How did I know?"

"Know what he said when he was getting it done?" is her reply to that, shifting in her seat and lifting a hand as she alternates between watching the road ahead and communicating with her passengers in the back seat, "Wouldn't shut up about it, kept telling me: _Arch'll love this_! And _Isn't this great, Jackie? Wait till Archer sees this_."

"_You do though, right, Arch_?" Francis grins across at him from the centre console, because apparently the next seat over is just too far away. Kid's always had a thing with physical contact.

"'_Course I do_," he easily endorses the kid's color choice and takes the marker from his uninjured hand. "_Looks brilliant, kid, good choice,"_ he tells him, grinning all the while. And just to wheedle her further, Clint adds, "_Purple really suits you, we should've had you wearing it earlier_."

"_Like I said_," Jack reiterates from the front seat, movements more emphatic than before and locking eyes with him in the central mirror, "_I blame you_."

He's laughing as he scrawls a message across the fiberglass that reads: **Next time, let the engineers assemble the plane. You just concentrate on piloting the damn thing so you can fly.**

"_Gnat?_" The kid hands the marker over to her and thrusts the broken limb across the space between the back seat and front, ever hopeful she'll write something that doesn't blatantly ridicule his misfortune for all the world to see, now he's mostly out of the woods. He should really know better by now.

Still, kid's wearing a faint scowl when he finishes reading what she's written and when Clint tugs his cast-covered arm towards him, he barks out another laugh at the Russian's accompaniment to his own.

**Next time, pick a place with a softer landing spot. And take a parachute, just in case.**

On the inside of the cast, running up the length of his arm, Jack's written in Swedish: **Birds are supposed to fly, silly. You won't get where you want to go if you aim for the ground.**

It's a light-hearted chide, mixed with what he knows is her hope for the kid's future; same as all of them. That he'll find there's more to life than this, and he'll strike out on his own and do more than just carry on: he'll thrive.

.

They're in the back room, when she looks to him and says, "He'll be ok, yes?"

It strikes him that she might actually be concerned for the kid's welfare. Sure he'd watched her earlier, but that could be passed off as her simply reacting to the current scenario, judging the situation and responding in a way that compliments what he and the others around them are doing, like she's so very good at.

He doesn't voice such thoughts, lest she run away from them like he knows she would.

"Kid's got scars coming out of his ears, Tash. Literally," he assures her, feeling more assured now himself. "One more won't hurt. He'll be fine."

She nods. "Of course."

"It's nice though, that you were asking after him," he broaches the subject that much.

She says nothing.

"He's taken a liking to you," he continues, "But I guess you already knew that. _Gnat_."

He grins at her and she takes an easy swipe at him like she'd swat at the fly she's been named after.

"S'why he got so defensive on you earlier," he notes, "Kid likes you, which means he doesn't like it when you do anything that could be seen to contradict the little bond he's so sure the pair of you have."

"I was aware," she responds, her lips twisting as indication that she's humoring him here and she doesn't mind so much letting him spell out something she already knows, even if it is what she does. Read between the lines; tease information from the morsels left for her; ascertain sensitive intel by any means necessary from those tasked with keeping it out of the hands of those like her. Except there's no one like Nat, not really.

Still; there's no one quite like the Kid either, he's sure.

"Kid likes you," he reiterates and then draws attention to what runs alongside this, "And you like him."

She neither confirms nor denies this, but her lips curve more than curl and he knows it's true.

"So now we all like each other, maybe we should get Jack to throw a party to celebrate?" he suggests, already prepared for the answer.

"No more parties," comes her flat-out refusal, and just to ram the point home she grabs the nearest pillow and smacks him with it. "I mean it, Clint, I'm not putting up with that many children in the same room, hyped up on that much sugar again. Not unless I get to shoot or otherwise maim at least one person per child present _and_ I'm getting paid a ridiculous amount of money for it. Like the kind of reimbursement I'd expect from babysitting a billionaire eccentric and having to put up with all the shit that goes with."

"So that's what I've got to work with here? Ok," he agrees, and then stops short to ask, "Wait, are you imposing a ban on the sugar or just the children?"

He grabs the cushion when she aims it at him again, because of course she doesn't believe him for a minute, and pulls her bodily towards him.

"Ok," he relents, softer now as he breathes out into a smile, "How about we just celebrate this little victory ourselves then?"

She pretends to consider this even as she draws closer into him. "I suppose I could be amenable to such plans."

Before he can go getting any ideas though, she rips the pillow out from between them and uses it to shove him backwards, towards the door.

"But first, you need to go outside and deal with that boy out there because he did not learn enough about the laws of physics during that journey to stop him falling off another tree swing," she instructs, and nods to the little figure in the backyard, who has indeed plonked himself down on the tire that hangs from another giant tree out there, swaying back and forth. "I'm not watching someone fall from the sky twice in one day; once is more than enough. Go teach him it's ok to plant your feet on solid ground sometimes and see where it takes you."

"Yes, Ma'am," he replies, like he would his superior once upon a time, and even salutes her.

He winks at her, which isn't so much part of the basic military etiquette they tried to drill into him as what he's like around her.

"What would I do without you there to keep me on track?" he comments, and he's not really expecting a response, but she give him one anyway.

"Probably throw yourself off a greater height than him," she says knowingly.

To which he grins at her and gifts her with his gratitude for all their sakes: "Thanks Nat."

.

The kid is sitting on the tree swing he fashioned himself – the original one, before the whole wooden-plane fiasco.

He doesn't need to concentrate very hard to hear him in his head: _**"I only need you to throw the rope over, Arch, 'cos you're bigger 'n me. But if you're gonna try an' help more so you can steal my glory, I'll jus get Gnat. She can wear those heels of hers so she's super tall and she can do the best knots too, so it won't wiggle free.**_ _**'Fact, maybes I'll just ask Gnat to help."**_

_**Clint's response had been something along the lines of, "Sure kid, you go do that."**_

And then he'd sat back on the porch to watch events unfold.

Now he watches the little legs kick off the ground, tiptoes skimming the earth as the tire sways under the movement. The only indication the kid's in any way bothered by the cast on his arm is when it gets stuck upon entry to the cookie jar in his grasp. The little frown on his face becomes quickly obvious along with the complete indignation that such a thing is possible: that he's actually being thwarted by this medical contraption. And his determined pout and the way he jiggles his bum arm back and forth till he pulls it free, sans cookie, has Clint actively trying not to shake his head and laugh at the kid.

Francis glares at the cast and then at the glass jar, pauses for but a moment and then grins like a feral cat before it pounces on its prey. The six year old cups the palm of his good hand, hooks the cookie jar in the crook of his arm and then shakes it until the contents all fall out. What he doesn't catch in his tiny hand, settles in the scoop of his t-shirt and he drops the jar to the grass with a dull thud and begins devouring the cookies at once.

Kid probably shouldn't be on the swing in the first place with the gauze taped to the side of his head, the scrapes and bruises covering his skin, and the arm that's immobilized at an angle in vibrant purple. He probably shouldn't do a lot of things that Clint and Jack, and even Nat, stand back and let him do; but he'll never learn if he doesn't get back on the horse and start riding again.

He'd discarded the sling almost immediately, getting tangled up in it and the seat belt while trying to sign on the ride back. He always has more fun using both hands.

Clint carries it over to him now though with the lesson, "_Maybe if you'd kept this on you'd have had somewhere to catch all those cookies_."

"_I have somewhere to catch all the cookies_," Francis tells him, like this should be obvious, "_Got two hands, Arch!_"

The kid waves at him with both, nearly toppling from the makeshift seat with laughter and the imbalance caused from being severely weighted down on one side.

"_And s'long as they end up where I want 'em don't matter how they got there,_" he adds with a cocky little grin Clint knows he's learned from him. Then he uses a couple of fingers of his supposedly 'useless' arm to flick a cookie up in the air like he's tossing a coin to decide his fate and jerks forward to catch it between his teeth. It's _almost_ like the kid's saying: _Take that, gravity, you bitch! _But of course, he wouldn't, and he doesn't. He just may have also got his love of the theatrics from Clint.

Clint's in front of him before he can land face-first in the dirt, although he seriously contemplates letting the little guy go it on his own to knock him down another peg or two. Of course, the streak of pride when the kid grins at him around a mouthful of cookie stops him and instead has him silently congratulating himself on a job well done by someone's count.

"_You have so much more to learn, kid_," he says, and shakes his head at the antics that are so familiar, as he marvels at the boy in his arms who just offers him a cookie with the unspoken prompt: _Your go._

"_Yeah, but that's why you're here, Arch_," the kid says, looking up at him with an easy smile and munching happily on treat he won for himself like he doesn't have a care in the world.

He supposes when your mentors consist of three of the top agents of a multi-national secret organization and a woman who makes it her mission to avoid any direct contact with said organization and succeeds, you probably don't have much to worry about.

As life should be for the kid.

.

"He's yours, isn't he?" she whispers into the darkness and finds him staring back at her.

"I know his Dad," he responds, clear as day in the dead of night.

_Don't we all_, she thinks and scoffs, "Sure you do."

"That's right, I do," he tells her. "I know his Dad."

When she stays quiet he nudges her.

"Stick to the party line, Nat," he says to her, "It's better for everyone."

He is the first person she's ever taken for their word.

The last time she did that he spared her life. If this is what she has to do to repay that debt, she'll do it; she'll do it for him, so it's better for everyone.

.

He's six years old when they show him that caring for people comes with a price, but sometimes it's the only thing that's worth a damn.

.

**TBC**

* * *

Thanks for reading.  
Steph


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